


Get in Losers, We're Going to Pee on Pennywise's Grave

by gallopingmelancholia



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Georgie's still dead tho. Sorry Georgie, Human Pennywise (IT), If you want you can think of it as The Big Chill but with more crime, M/M, No Conflict, Reunions, Some angst, Stanley Uris Lives, This scary movie was good but it could also make a great romcom, mentions of past child murder/rape, no beta we die like men, whoops way more angst than I intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallopingmelancholia/pseuds/gallopingmelancholia
Summary: Richie picks up this time. “Uh, hello?” He sounds bewildered.“Hi, Richie. It’s Mike Hanlon.”There’s a long pause. “Fuck off, Mike Hanlon? From Derry?”Mike laughs. “That’s me. How are you, Trashmouth?”“I’m fucking incredible. What’s up, man? This is weird.”“Robert Gray died this morning in prison.”Richie takes a second to place the name. “Pennywise? That fucking pedophile clown?”“That’s the one.”“Good, couldn’t have happened to a better guy. How?”“Natural causes.”“Fuck, that sucks. I was really counting on that stereotype of child molesters getting stabbed in prison.”**AU: Pennywise is just Robert Gray, a garden-variety pedophile serial killer, and when he dies in prison, Mike reunites the Losers in order to honor the vow they made as kids to desecrate his grave. Good news: they still like each other. There's a lot of smiling.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 51
Kudos: 265





	1. Mike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assemble.

Mike makes the calls a few hours after he reads the headline. He contacts Bill first, as is only right.

“Hello, is this Bill? Bill Denbrough?”

“Yes, this is he. Who is this?”

“Mike Hanlon. From Derry.”

“Derry?”

“Maine. We grew up together.”

Bill doesn’t say anything, still searching his memory.

“I was literally the only black kid you knew.”

“Oh my god, _Mike_ ,” Bill says. “I’m so sorry, I haven’t thought about Derry in 25 years. How are you?”

“I’m not bad. I just thought you should know. He’s gone. He died today in prison. I just saw it in the local news.”

“Who?”

“Robert Gray. Pennywise”

“Oh,” Bill says faintly. It’s so quiet that Mike can hear the screech of a chair on a wooden floor as Bill pulls it out to sit down.

“How?”

“Natural causes.”

Bill swears.

“I know, it’s not fair.”

Bill exhales heavily. “It’s really fucking not.”

“This is gonna sound stupid, but do you remember the pact we made? With the Coke bottle?”

Bill huffs a laugh. “Oh my god. I actually forgot what that scar was,” he says, and Mike looks down at the matching scar on his own hand.

“Do you want to come up and visit? We don’t actually have to pee on his grave.”

“No, I still want to do that,” Bill says, and Mike snickers.

“Maybe this weekend? Or next?” Mike says. “He’ll be buried by then.”

It’s Monday. Plenty of time to book a flight and a room at the Town House, the only hotel in Derry, and be there by Friday night.

“Yeah, why not?” Bill says. “A blood oath’s a blood oath, you can’t welsh on it. Could be fun to see the old haunts.”

“That’s a great word for it,” Mike says. “That’s exactly what they are.”

“Do you still live there?”

“Yeah, I’m the librarian at the Derry Public Library.”

“Good for you, man. That’s awesome.”

“And yes, we have all your books in. They’re in a local authors display.”

“Really?” Bill sounds genuinely touched.

“Of course. Local boy makes good. We’ve got to have them.”

“Does anyone read them?”

Mike laughs. “Now that’s another story.”

Bill takes down Mike’s cell number, promising to text him details of his trip once he solidifies them. He hangs up feeling much lighter. He’d been keeping tabs on all of the Losers Club members since they started making names for themselves, so he knew what they looked like, and for the more famous ones like Bill and Richie, he knew what they sounded like as adults, but the difference between watching an interview on YouTube and hearing the burst of pleased recognition in his voice on the other end of the line is indescribable. It causes a pleasant hurting in his chest.

Next up is Stanley Uris. He owns his own accounting firm in Georgia and is doing very well for himself, according to Mike’s research. He answers on the first ring.

“Stanley Uris.”

“Hi, Stan. It’s Mike Hanlon.”

“Good morning, Mike. Remind me, what association are you with?” Mike can hear some typing in the background. Stanley’s got the best business voice Mike has ever heard, just the right amount of warmth and personality to be trusted but not amiable enough to invite you to stay on the phone a second longer than necessary.

“Uh. Derry Public Library.”

“Derry as in D-E-“ he cuts himself off. “Mike? From Derry? Maine?”

“That’s right. How are you, Stanley?”

“I’m doing well, Mike. Michael Hanlon? From that club we had as kids?”

“The Losers Club.”

Stanley laughs, the professionalism dropped like a curtain. “Losers forever, that’s right! Mike, I’m not going to lie, this is unexpected. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. I just called Bill, and thought I should reach out to everyone else. Robert Gray died this morning.”

“Robert Gray? Who is—? Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s Bill?”

“He’s good. He’s coming to visit Derry this weekend. I thought we could have a little reunion.”

“Oh, that’ll be nice,” Stanley says, still thrown.

“Can you join us? Or rather, do you want to join us?”

“This weekend?” More typing. Mike expects he’s checking his calendar.

“Yeah.”

“Can I give you a call back?”

“Of course. It’s fine if you can’t make it. I just thought it’d be good to see everyone again.”

“Yes, yeah, it would be.”

“Plus, I don’t know if you remember, but we made a sacred vow.”

“What vow--? Oh Lord.” Stanley laughs shortly, clapping a hand over his mouth, and Mike laughs too, relieved.

“Thank god you remember, I feel awkward saying it, it’s such a dumb kid thing,” Mike says. “And you’re all professional now and I was just like, Oh my god, I’m going to have to actually talk about pissing on a grave with this very serious businessman.”

Stan is still chuckling. “I’m not very serious.”

“Wow, you must have changed a lot, then. You were always so proper and put together.”

“You can just say I was a weenie, I won’t be offended.”

“We were all weenies, that was the point.”

“That’s true. Will all the other weenies be there?”

“You’re only the second call I’ve made, but I’m hoping so.”

“Let me talk to my wife. She’s got a baby shower for her cousin this weekend, I was supposed to go with her, but that’s the only thing we’ve got going on. I can probably make it.”

“So you’ll come?”

“Put me down as a tentative yes.”

“Yes! That’s great news, Stan.”

“Is this your number?”

“Yeah, my cell. Call or text whenever you shape up your plans or if something comes up.”

“Of course. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Talk to you soon.”

Mike adds a check to his list, then dials the next number on his list. A receptionist answers.

“Hello, may I please speak to Beverly Marsh? Sorry, Beverly Rogan?”

“She’s in a meeting at the moment, may I ask who’s calling?”

“Mike Hanlon, from Derry, Maine.”

“Is she expecting your call?”

“No. Something’s come up.”

“Let me put you on hold,” the assistant says.

The hold music goes for about two minutes. It’s not the tinny, impersonal hold music he usually hears. It’s kinda calming, unobtrusive, classy. It fits her, somehow.

“Mike?”

“Bev?”

“I can’t believe it’s you, holy shit,” Bev says.

“Yeah, it’s me. All the way from Maine.”

“How are you? Is everything OK? Melinda said something came up?”

“I’m good. It’s just that Robert Gray died. Pennywise.”

Bev gasps. “You’re kidding.”

“Just this morning. He was still in jail. I thought we should all know, considering everything we went through.”

“Thank you for calling,” she says faintly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I thought you would like to hear it from an old friend.”

“Yes, a very old friend. Good old Mike Hanlon.” There it is. He can hear her smile for the first time in 27 years.

“I just spoke to Bill—“

“Bill?”

“Bill Denbrough. His brother, Georgie—“

“Fuck. Fuck, that’s right. Georgie. Is Bill--?”

“He’s doing well. He’s out in LA, they’re making a movie out of one of his books.”

“Wow, that’s amazing.”

“Yeah, he’s a big shot now. As are you, I hear. Miss Fashionista.”

“I do all right,” she says modestly.

“You’re making us proud.”

“Stop it,” she says, laughing. “Are you still in Derry?”

“Yeah, I’m the head librarian now. Never left.”

“Oh.” He can hear the disappointment in her voice. He doesn’t need pity, his life is fine. Satisfactory, even. Completely adequate.

“Yeah, still a Loser, still a small fish. Not like you, you’re a big fish in a big pond. Big Fish Bill and Stanley are coming back to visit our small pond. Can I count you in for our impromptu reunion this weekend?”

“I’ll be there,” she says firmly. “I’ll have Melinda email you the details. Friday?”

“That’s when the others are getting in.”

“All seven of us Losers?”

“So far we’ve got four, including you.”

“Who’s next on your list to call?”

“Richie, then Eddie, then Ben.”

“Oh my god, Ben,” she says with impossible fondness. “Tell him I said hi.”

“I will. I’m hoping to get Eddie and Richie too.”

“You better. We’ve all got to pee on that grave together or it doesn’t count.”

Mike laughs. “I knew you’d remember. None of the others did, but I knew you would.”

“It seems like everything from that summer is imprinted on my mind,” she admits. “It’s all back there somewhere.”

“Yeah,” he says, sighing.

“Let me make some calls, move some things around. My husband—he runs the company with me—he’ll need to know where I’m going.” Her voice is tense now. It hurts Mike to hear it and recognize it, even after all these years.

“He’s welcome to come, if he wants, but I was hoping it’d—“

“No, he’s not invited. This is a Losers Club only reunion. No plus ones.” The lightness in her voice is forced, but he knows she’s not going to cave. A brotherly protectiveness creeps into his next words.

“Call me if you need anything. Absolutely anything. I can talk to him.”

“No, it’ll be fine. I’ll see you on Friday. I’m looking forward to catching up.”

“I’ll see you then. I can’t wait.”

“Take care,” she says.

“Goodbye, Beverly. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Same to you. Bye, Mike.”

She hangs up. He feels uneasy, but pushes it away. Bev can take care of herself. She had to be tougher even than him as a kid. That kind of thing doesn’t go away.

Richie doesn’t answer the first time he calls. It goes to voicemail. Mike doesn’t leave one. He’s not an animal. He makes a cup of coffee and tries again in a few minutes. It is before 10am in LA, after all. Richie’s probably not awake yet. If he doesn’t pick up, Mike will try Eddie, who’s in New York and definitely at work.

Richie picks up this time. “Uh, hello?” He sounds bewildered.

“Hi, Richie. It’s Mike Hanlon.”

There’s a long pause. “Fuck off, Mike Hanlon? From Derry?”

Mike laughs. “That’s me. How are you, Trashmouth?”

“I’m fucking incredible. What’s up, man? This is weird.”

“Robert Gray died this morning in prison.”

Richie takes a second to place the name. “Pennywise? That fucking pedophile clown?”

“That’s the one.”

“Good, couldn’t have happened to a better guy. How?”

“Natural causes.”

“Fuck, that sucks. I was really counting on that stereotype of child molesters getting stabbed in prison.”

God, Mike missed Richie so much. He’s so glad he decided to call. “Well, we can’t have everything.”

“Is Bill OK? Did you talk to Bill?”

“Bill’s great. He’s coming to visit this weekend. We’re going to—“

“Piss on his grave, hell yeah, you know I love public urination.”

“Can you come too?”

“Mike, I would be more than happy to come for you. I’ll come for you, with you, on you, you name it.”

 _He hasn't changed a bit._ “We’ll see how the weekend goes, I’m not making any promises.”

“Is it gonna be just you, me, and Big Bill? Ménage à trois on Pennywise’s grave?”

“No, Stan and Bev are visiting too.”

“What about Eddie?”

“He’s next on my list to call.”

“Cool, good. I’m in.”

“Do you have to make any arrangements? Move around any shows or anything?”

“Fuckin’ probably. I’ll ask Steve.”

“Who’s Steve?” Everyone he’s called so far has been married. He hadn’t turned up any significant other while researching Richie. He’d been under the impression Richie was single.

“My manager.”

 _Oh, OK, that makes more sense._ “If you can’t make it, that’s ok, I know you’re busy touring.”

“It’s fine, I don’t even want to go to Reno. This is an emergency. Avengers gotta assemble. We can’t forsake a blood oath. The Great Turtle won’t allow it.”

“Uh, the what?”

“Oh, it’s from my stand-up. I was quoting myself like a tool.”

“What’s the joke?”

“It’s a shitty joke, it’s not even funny in context. Forget I said anything. I’ll be there Friday night.”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you soon.”

“This is awesome, man. Losers forever.”

“Losers forever. Bye, Richie.”

“Bye, Mike.”

 _This is kind of fun_ , Mike thinks, sipping his coffee. If he’s assembling the Avengers like Richie said, that makes him Captain America. He can deal with that. Which Avengers would the others be? Bev as Black Widow would be too obvious. Ben's too nice to be Tony Stark. 

Eddie sounds curious when he answers. He must not be expecting a Maine area code.

“Hi, who is this?”

“Hi, Eddie, it’s Mike Hanlon, from Derry.”

“Mike? Mike! Holy crap, Mike!”

“Good morning to you too,” he says.

“Hold on, I’m driving, let me pull over.” Mike drains his mug and takes it over to the sink to rinse it out. He can hear honking and Eddie quietly swearing at other drivers. Eddie would be the Hulk. 

“Sorry, I’m good to talk now. How are you? It’s been like, 30 years.”

“I’m good, I’m good. I’m calling because Robert Gray died this morning.”

“Oh fuck. That fucking clown guy?”

“Yep, Pennywise the Dancing Clown.”

“I hope it was painful.”

“Heart attack.”

Eddie makes a disappointed sound. “Bummer.”

“Yeah. What are you doing this weekend? We’re getting together back in Derry.”

“Everyone? The Losers Club?”

“Yeah, I’m hoping to get all of us.”

“I’ll have to ask my wife.” Eddie sighs heavily.

“If you can’t make it, that’s fine. I know you’ve got commitments.”

“You know what? I need a vacation. It’ll be good for me. Relaxing.”

Mike snorts. Yes, the Edward Kaspbrak he remembers was super into relaxing. “So can I put you down as a yes?”

“Yes. Tentatively.”

“Great! I’ve just got to call Ben after this, but I’ve got everyone so far. Bill, Stan, Bev. Richie.”

“Well, shit, I can’t be the only one who doesn’t show up. I’ll be there.”

“So a definite yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good! Everyone’s getting there on Friday night after work, as far as I can tell.”

“I’ll meet you on Friday, then. What’s the weather going to be like?”

“I haven’t checked yet. Probably sunny because it’s July?”

“I’ll pack for rain, just in case.”

Mike chuckles. “It’s only three days, don’t overdo it.”

“Best to be prepared.”

“You’re right,” he says. He’s going to leave out the unsanitary vow they made. That’s not going to be a selling point for Eddie. Eddie has to hang up now, but he promises to be there. One last call to make.

“This is Benjamin Hanscom,” he answers.

“Hi, Ben, it’s Mike Hanlon. From Derry.”

“Seriously? Mike? From the Losers Club?”

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did, you guys were the best friends I ever had.” Mike knows that this is entirely sincere. It’s true for him too.

“How are you? Are you still in Derry?”

“I’m wonderful. Yeah, I’m the head librarian.”

“At the Derry Public Library? I loved that place.”

“I know, I remember you spent all your time there.”

“Congratulations, Mike, that’s really cool.” God bless him, Ben actually believes that.

“Thanks, Ben. Listen, I’m calling because Robert Gray died this morning.”

“Oh.”

“Remember the vow we made?”

Ben snickers. “Oh no. We’re not gonna really do that, are we?”

“Well, everyone’s visiting this weekend. Whether or not we actually desecrate his grave can be up to group vote once we get there.”

“Everyone’s visiting? Bev?”

“Yep, she’s in. She says hi. Her and Bill, all seven of us will be there if you come too.”

“Sounds like a good party. I’ll make it.”

“That’s good!”

“By hook or by crook, I’ll be there.”

“Friday. Text me your details.”

“I will. I’ve got to go, one of my engineers is calling.”

“Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks, Mike, it’s so good to hear from you. I’m sorry we lost touch.”

“Don’t be. We’ll talk later.”

“Soon. Very soon.”

There. That’s done. Not bad for a morning’s work. Mike has smiled more this morning than he has this entire year. They’re all older, but the kids he knew are still there. It’s going to be a good weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maturin the Great Turtle is stupid, and the Losers correspond better with the DCEU, FIGHT ME. 
> 
> ETA: I have had Bev's possible alter-ego as "Scarlet Widow" in this thing for MONTHS and none of you guys corrected me? You're all fired for being too nice. I thought the internet was supposed to be full of pedants, honestly.


	2. Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They eat food and drink a lot and check each other out.

God help him, he’s nervous as hell. There’s nothing to be nervous about. He’s not the awkward fat kid anymore. He knows these people, he used to love them. He used to be in love with one of them. And they actually liked him, welcomed him into their lives. Helped him. But the second he crossed that city line, he felt a weight settle on his shoulders. So much bad had happened here, it’s like it seeped into the ground and slowly returned to the air after dark, like the sun’s heat on a blacktop on a summer’s night. It sits in the soil like radiation. Derry is the Chernobyl of childhood trauma.

He pulls up to the Jade of the Orient and just sits in his car in silence. There are more cars in the parking lot than he expected based on how deserted the streets were driving in. They probably belong to the Losers. They’re probably all already there and have been for hours and didn’t text Ben to see when he’d get there. They didn’t even realize he was missing. This is all an elaborate joke.

A text from Mike comes through.

Mike: Did you get in alright?

Ben: Yep, flight landed an hour ago. Nearly to the restaurant.

Mike: Great, some of us are here, we’re excited to see you. We’ve got a table in the back.

The weight on his shoulders lifts a little. He checks his hair in the mirror and makes sure there’s nothing in his teeth. Then a deep breath. Another deep breath. What does Beverly look like now? Is her hair still that vibrant red? He’d looked her up, but Google could’ve been lying. One more deep breath, and out he goes.

Her hair is still red. _January Embers._ It’s the first thing he sees. The deep breathing did nothing. He smiles past the constricting in his lungs. “Hi, guys.”

Mike, Bev, and Stan look up at his voice. Mike is the only one who recognizes him at first.

“Ben! You made it!” He gets up to give Ben a hug, and Bev and Stan follow, and he’s got to admit, all of the sweat and time he’s spent being hangry and in the gym has been worth it to feel skinny enough to hug Bev without feeling self-conscious. Is that pathetic? If so, he’s pathetic. She smells good, like expensive perfume, but not in an overpowering way.

“You look incredible,” Stan says, “I was not expecting that.”

“Thanks, Stan, that means a lot to me.”

Bev is just looking at him happily. “That smile hasn’t changed, though. Hi, Ben.”

“Hi, Beverly.”

Stan and Mike are sitting across from each other, but Ben chooses to sit kitty-corner from Bev. It’s not so he can look at her all night without seeming like a creep, but yes it is.

After Bill enters, they just decide to stay standing. Bill looks good. Ben hasn’t read any of his books yet, but he’s bought every one. He even just picked one up at the airport. It’s on the front seat of his rental. Bev gives Bill a hug and Ben tries to tamp down the irrational jealousy that sears through him. _It was 27 years ago, dummy, it doesn’t matter. We’re both allowed to have crushes on Beverly, and she can like whoever she wants. Stop being a weirdo._

Bill is quickly followed by Eddie Kaspbrak, instantly recognizable. He didn’t even know how much he’d missed Eddie until he sees him. This is really happening. He has them all back.

Richie is last. Typical. He’s late to everything. He also makes a characteristically obnoxious entrance, banging the gong that Ben was pretty sure was ornamental. Eddie looks over, annoyed.

“There he is,” Eddie says. He’s closest to the door, so he’s the first one Richie hugs.

“Eddie Spaghetti!”

Their hug devolves into a contest over who can squeeze hardest.

“Jesus, you broke my spine, you win,” Eddie says, letting go, laughing. Richie makes his way down the line, hugging everyone in turn like a favorite uncle returning home for Christmas with expensive presents. He gives Bev a big smacking kiss on the cheek. He pulls Stanley into a noogie.

“B-b-b-buh-Bill! How in the heck are you?!” he shouts right into his ear.

“Deaf now,” Bill replies.

When he gets to Ben, he makes an exaggerated concerned face. “Uh, someone call security, there’s a stranger here. This can’t be Benjamin “Haystack” Hanscom.”

“The one and only,” he says, giving Richie a hug. He’s taller than expected, but otherwise exactly the same.

“Ben Handsome, more like, holy shit, dude. Choke me with your enormous biceps, that’s how I want to go out.” Ben obliges by putting him in a headlock. Richie flops to the floor and convulses theatrically.

“Ok, simmer down, Richie,” Stan says. “Get up, I’m starving.”

Richie looks downright giddy. Ben gets it. He hasn’t been this happy in years. As someone who thrives on positive attention, Richie must be beside himself.

They all sit down and sip their water and glance at the menu, but really they’re all just looking around at each other and drinking in each others’ presence. It’s so weird to be back, to be faced with the familiar Derry feelings of helplessness and fear and the familiarity of old friends, recognizable under the newness of their adult identities. A server comes up and they put in orders, _Don’t drink your calories, Ben_ , he thinks, but then decides _fuck it,_ _it can be a cheat day_.

They go around in a circle and give updates on their essentials. Successful, rich, successful, rich, Mike, successful, rich. Bachelor’s, MFA, Bachelor’s, MFA, high school diploma, Bachelor’s, high school diploma. Married, married, married, married, single, single, single. All childless. (That one makes sense. The world’s not safe for kids, they know that better than anyone.)

Bill doesn’t need to pass around his phone, they all know what Audra looks like.

“Like, to a woman?” Richie says when Eddie says he’s married. If that’s supposed to be a joke about Eddie’s manhood, it doesn’t really land. Ben doesn’t mention that Eddie’s wife looks exactly like his mom with different glasses, but he notices, and everyone else does too.

He gets a text from her as his phone is being passed around. “Ugh, go away, Myra,” Eddie says, only half-joking, dismissing the text without reading it. They skip past _that_ in favor of complimenting Patty Uris. Bev doesn’t share pictures of her husband unfortunately ( _I’ll bet he’s hotter than me. I’ll bet he’s richer than me. I’ll bet he’s smarter than me_ ) and fortunately ( _fuck that guy, I don’t want to see that shit)_. Ben has to explain how he got hot and is awkward and embarrassed the whole time. Eddie tries to describe risk analysis and Richie pretends to fall asleep. When they find out what she does, Stan asks Beverly to critique their outfits (because he knows she’ll approve of his, he’s always been well-dressed), and she roasts the ever-living fuck out of Richie, starting with his messy hair, working down to his messy stubble, all the way down to his messy sneakers.

The food arrives, which is good. It’ll soak up some of the alcohol in his system so he doesn’t do something dumb and reckless like fall in love with Beverly again.

It’s a losing battle, and he knows it. He doesn’t know how she’s simultaneously graceful, vulgar, untouchable, and earthy, but she is. She’s so full of affection and care for everyone at the table, it just shines out of her. He’s going crazy.

She’s got a very nice diamond ring on her right ring finger. No jewelry at all on her left hand. Interesting. _Don’t make it a thing._

Bill offers a toast before they dig in.

“To Georgie Denbrough, taken from us too soon,” he says. Everyone raises a glass and drinks. Bill chokes down the wine. Even Richie is solemn for a few minutes.

Ben breaks the silence by offering up his glass. “To Mike, for bringing us together again.”

“Hear, hear!” they chorus, and drink together.

Richie signals to the server and orders seven shots. The others protest, but he insists. When they arrive and are passed around, he stands and raises his glass. “To heart attacks.”

“To bad things happening to bad people,” Eddie says.

“To rapists dying in prison,” Bev says.

“To the Maine justice system,” Mike adds.

“To divine justice,” Stan finishes up, and they all throw them back. The burn of the whiskey is satisfying.

Bill looks overwhelmed, and not because the liquor has stung his eyes and throat like it has Ben’s. Mike claps a hand on his shoulder.

They’ve gone back to eating quietly, and the mood passes when Richie makes a tentative, surprisingly tame joke and Eddie riffs on it, and then it’s party time again. There’s arm wrestling at one point. In an hour, they’re all sloshed. Even Mike, who is easily the most responsible person there.

Beverly looks up suddenly. “Uh oh. Oh shit. We forgot to assign a DD.”

“Do cabs exist here?” Eddie asks. Ben can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“We’ll get some Ubers, it’ll be fine,” Mike says.

“Their business model sucks,” Eddie says.

“Agreed,” Stan says. “It’s unethical.”

“Then you two can walk,” Bill says.

“I’m a New Yorker, walking doesn’t scare me,” Eddie says.

“You drive in the city, you don’t walk any more than I do,” Mike points out.

“Guys, it’s cool, I can do it, I drive drunk all the time,” Stan says, and they’re all startled into silence until he giggles. He couldn’t even make it through the whole sentence without breaking. “I’m just kidding, I don’t know how to drive.”

“Then how’d you get here?” Mike asks.

“Rode a Segway.”

Richie howls with laughter until his face turns pink, far longer than the others. “I’m just picturing you in a little helmet, making those arm signals when you turn, on a fucking Segway in the middle of traffic, like,” he makes a very serious face and puts his hands up like he’s holding handlebars. Eddie does the same and adds vroom vroom noises, and Richie laughs even harder. Stan nods in their direction while taking another drink, pleased his joke went over so well.

“We’ll call two cabs, load up your suitcases, and come back for the cars in the morning,” Mike says once the table has calmed down.

“Smart,” Bev says.

“But what about you?” Ben asks.

“I can walk home, it’s not far.”

“Absolutely not. We’ll get you a room,” Bev says.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Mike says.

“My treat,” Bill says.

“That way if you have a nightmare you can sleep in Daddy’s bed,” Richie says, pointing to himself.

“Oh my god, do not call yourself daddy,” Eddie says.

“Do you want me to call _you_ daddy?” Richie asks, and Eddie nearly spits out his drink and turns bright red, his face contorting while he tries to stop spluttering and laughing.

“I hate you so much, I’m leaving,” Eddie says.

“That’s not a no,” Richie says.

“I’m taking Stan’s Segway and getting the fuck out of here,” Eddie says, and he and Richie burst into shrieking laughter again, falling all over each other. Ben makes eye contact with Stan. _What’s up with them?_ Stan shrugs and raises his beer to his lips. Bill has also noticed their silent conversation. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, _Not even gonna ask._ Ben sneaks a glance at Bev. There’s a smile with just the smallest hint of sadness on her face as she watches them. She feels his gaze, so she turns to look at him and sticks her tongue out.

God, he likes her so much. That was so cute he’s going to have a heart attack.

“I missed you,” Ben says to the table at large. “I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve gotten drunk together.” He starts to feel himself tearing up.

“Oh my god, Ben’s the crier,” Richie says. “I knew it! Whenever there’s a gathering of drunks at least one of them cries. We found the ‘I Love You Guys’ Drunk!”

“I do love you guys,” Ben says, tearing up even more. “I’m so glad we’re here.”

“Yeah, child murderers should die more often,” Richie says, and Eddie reaches over and slaps him on the back of the head.

“Eddie’s the mean drunk,” Richie announces.

“At least I don’t cry during sex, Tozier,” Ben says with a pointed glare, and everyone hoots.

“I can’t believe Eddie’s mom told you that,” Richie says, and Eddie hits him on the back of the head again.

“Oh good, we’re doing mom-fucking jokes again,” Stan says.

“They’re a classic for a reason,” Richie says.

“They’re lazy,” he says, and Stan is probably the only person who could get away with telling Richie that. Stan’s allowed to be judgmental. That’s what he does best.

“Your mom’s lazy,” Richie shoots back, only a little offended.

“My mom’s dead,” Stan says, and he and Richie snicker. No harm done.

“That sucks, though, I’m sorry. I liked your mom. In a non-sexual way,” Richie replies.

“Eh. She was OK.”

“Does anyone still have any living parents?” Mike asks the table. No one does. That makes Ben sad. They don’t have any parents and they don’t have any kids. It’s just them.

Not that it felt like their parents did much good back when they were here. They were either abusive or negligent, all of them, even Ben’s. He can admit that now.

They didn’t listen. The Losers had tried to tell them about Robert Gray. The adults hadn’t listened. They barely even noticed when their kids broke curfew, which the Losers did constantly, sneaking to the Barrens or their clubhouse so they could be together and not be so scared all the time.

“My grandparents died awhile back, before I went to college. If I’d have gone to college, I mean. I had to resolve a lot of their legal affairs instead, and then I just kinda…stayed,” Mike explains.

“You never got to Florida?” Bev asks.

“Not yet,” Mike says. “But there’s still time.”

The fortune cookies arrive with the check. They fight over who gets to pay it, and Ben comes out the winner. They crack open their cookies.

“These fortunes suck,” Beverly says. “Mine just says, ‘Richie Tozier wet the bed until he was 14 years old.’ I already knew that, fortune cookie.” Richie throws the shards of his cookie at her, and she laughs, wide-mouthed and musical.

Ben is right back where he was when Bev signed his yearbook all those years ago. God, she’s so much cooler than he is.

Ben looks at his. It says, “You are a man of righteousness and integrity.” ( _In bed,_ he thinks, chuckling.)

That’s not helpful. Then again, he supposes one saying, “TELL HER, YOU IDIOT” would’ve been too on-the-nose.

While they’re waiting for the cabs with their luggage in the lot, Mike adds everyone into a group chat and sends them a smiley emoji. Richie is using the top of Eddie’s head as an armrest while he scrolls through his phone.

“Which one are you?” he asks. “I don’t know any of these area codes. Wait, there’s Bill’s. Hi Bill.”

“646,” Eddie replies.

Ben changes it in his own phone, and gets a text from someone in the 224 area code. Chicago. It says, “Guess who?” and there’s an emoji of a woman with red hair.

He texts back, “Stan?”

Beverly laughs and looks up from her phone at him. He winks at her. She winks back. He adds the number to his contacts. He suppresses the urge to add a winky face emoji next to her name. _She’s married, you idiot. Hands off. Put that dumbass heart away._

She lights up a cigarette. He hates that she looks elegant while doing it.

“That’s bad for you,” he says.

“Your objection is duly noted,” she says, blowing out smoke. Richie takes one too. He lights it from the end of hers.

“Just a cheeky smoke. I only do it when I drink,” she says.

“At least you don’t vape,” Eddie says.

Bev looks guilty. “I did when I was quitting the cigs,” she confesses.

“Flavored?”

“Yes.”

“Lame. Super uncool. What are you, 12?”

“Shut up.”

She stamps it out on the ground when she’s done and passes around cinnamon Altoids. She used to use mints, all those years ago. It’s weird, the things you remember.

“Eddie, I said not to overdo it,” Mike says, gently nudging one of Eddie’s two large suitcases with his foot.

“I packed light,” Eddie says.

“You can fit a whole lot of fanny packs in those suitcases,” says Bill.

“I hope you brought one for me,” Stan says.

“Fuck you guys, fanny packs are very practical.”

“They’re coming back in style,” Bev says. “Unfortunately. We’re drawing up a few samples for next season.”

“Design one and name it after Eddie,” Mike says.

“I think I will.”

“Put a picture of spaghetti on it,” Richie says.

“With a little pocket shaped like an inhaler,” Ben says.

“It comes with a free pill box and bottle of hand sanitizer,” Stan says.

“The whole thing should just look like a giant bandaid,” Bill says.

“Why are you guys so mean?” Eddie asks conversationally.

“Aw, it’s not mean, it’s funny. If it’s funny it doesn’t count,” Richie says.

Ben’s not sure if Richie intended to reveal his entire life with that sentence, but that’s what he ended up doing. Richie hid everything behind the plausible deniability of jokes. He always had.

Stan has had the same thought. “Woof,” he observes.

“Shut up, I’m right,” Richie says.

The cabs arrive. Mike climbs into the front seat of one, and Richie, Eddie, and Stan crawl into the back.

Ben gets the window seat in the second one. “After you, Mrs. Rogan,” Bill says, swaying slightly as he holds opens up the door.

“I’m actually going back to Ms. Marsh,” she says, and the bottom drops out of Ben’s stomach. Bill pats Beverly on the knee awkwardly in condolence and closes the door.

_Fuck. Oh no, there’s hope. I’m fucked._

Ben looks at Beverly as they pass under a streetlight. The shadows play on her face, highlighting her cheekbones, the perfect upward tip of her nose. He aches.

Mike was right. There’s still time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this chapter I remembered that I had a months-old fortune cookie in the back of my fridge so I dug it out and that's what Ben's fortune says.


	3. Stanley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday morning. It uh, it gets kinda real.

He shouldn’t have had so much to drink last night, but he let himself get carried away, caught up in the contagious frivolity of the reunion. He normally didn’t indulge much at all (because he was a goddamn adult, thank you), so his tolerance was low, and the whiskey shot Richie had forced onto them on an empty stomach had knocked him for a loop, and before he knew it he was four beers deep and might as well keep going.

No regrets, though. He hadn’t had that much fun in years. Maybe a decade.

Ben knocks on his door at 7:30am and said he was going to get a late run in, would Stan like to come with?

“Late? How early do you normally get up?” Stanley asks, croaking into his cell phone; rather than dragging himself out of bed and to the door or yelling to Ben, he’d called.

“5,” Ben says, as if it were obvious, his voice loud in Stan’s ear and barely audible from the hallway, twenty feet away.

“I admire your dedication to fitness, you utter maniac. No, I would not like to go for a run. It’s bad for your knees and unfortunately I seem to be dying.”

“Just drink some water, buddy. You should have had a glass of water for every drink you had last night.”

“I can’t turn back time, Ben,” he whines.

“Well, Beverly and I are going to jog to the Jade to get our cars back, give us your keys so we can get yours on the second trip.”

“That’s like, three miles away.”

“Yeah, we’re taking it easy today.”

“Come back for the keys, I’ll be only mostly dead by then. Have fun, be safe, don’t talk to strangers.”

“Thanks,” Ben says, and hangs up. Stan hears him knock on Richie’s door, an exercise in futility if he’s ever heard one. He drifts off for another twenty minutes or so until his thirst is unbearable, so he pulls himself into the bathroom and spends a couple minutes trying to tear the dumb plastic wrap off those stupid hotel cups so he can drink some damn water. The crinkling is very irritating. He fills and gulps downs a glass, then another. Then it’s time to urinate, wash his hands, and drink another cup of water.

“Nnnrrrgggghhhnnnghh” he says. But he does feel better. At least he’s dying hydrated.

Continental breakfast ends at 9. Pffft. That’s not happening.

He feels a bit uneasy from the dream he’d had after Ben had left. Just a snatch of one, really. A strong hand gripping his wrist so hard it hurt. A flash of bone-deep fear, an overwhelming sense of _wrong_ and _danger._ A memory. A bad memory. Just being in Derry is enough to bring it back.

The in-room coffee maker starts burbling soon enough, and after his first cup of coffee he’s ready to take a shower, and by the time he’s dressed Ben and Bev are back, so he goes with them to ride along with Ben and get his own car while Beverly retrieves Mike’s. Then he stops at Tim Horton’s and gets another coffee and a breakfast wrap and some doughnuts for the others, because there’s no way they made it to the continental breakfast if he didn’t. They drank more than he did last night and are probably in even worse condition.

Eddie and Bill are awake, at least, and grateful for the food. They and Mike gather in Bill’s room to eat while Stan tries to rouse Richie.

“Richie, get up, I brought you sugar,” he says through the hotel door.

“Oh Stanley, you really do love me,” Richie shouts.

“Of course I do, numbnuts,” he replies. Stan hears some stumbling around and a loud “FUCK!”—it sounds like Richie barked his shins on the endtable—and then there he is in all his unwashed glory.

“You’ve got rats nesting in your hair,” Stan says.

“They’re my family,” Richie says, patting down the wild wavy tangle on top of his head. “Food? Chocolate?”

“Boston crème, just for you,” he says, holding out a doughnut wrapped in wax paper. They’d been Richie’s favorite as a kid. “There’s some sort of bacon maple monstrosity too. In Bill’s room.” Richie also loved to try every new snack, no matter how disgusting a combination it could be.

They go into Bill’s room. Stan makes sure to leave the door chain in the crack, so the door stays an inch or two ajar. It feels wrong but he knows Ben and Bev will need to get in. Richie takes another doughnut in each hand and flops down onto Bill’s bed, chewing with his mouth open. Mike is nursing a cup of hot coffee and sitting in the only chair. Bill has a Diet Coke and even worse of a hangover than Stan, it looks like. He reaches into the box and pulls out a classic cruller. That’s a leader’s doughnut.

“I would kill for a breakfast bagel,” Eddie says. “Sausage, egg and cheese. Everything bagel. Sriracha.” He takes the double chocolate cake doughnut Stan had picked out for him. He’ll be working on that for a while. Eddie’s always been a slow eater.

“Hash browns,” Richie says through a mouthful of doughnut.

“Oooh,” Bill agrees. “Make ‘em greasy.”

“Let’s do brunch tomorrow,” Richie says. “Mike, do you know what brunch is?”

“Yes, Richie, we have brunch here.”

“See, it’s like breakfast, but also lunch. Hence, brunch. It’s at around 11:30, but you should always make a reservation—“

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bill calls out.

“You drink mimosas—“

“Who decided it was a good idea to wake him up?” Eddie asks.

“Sorry,” Stan says. “I’ll knock him out again. Hold still, Richie.” He pretends to punch him in the face. “That’s what you get for not respecting the beeps.” The others chuckle, and he smiles despite himself. It’s unusual for Stan to get laughs like this. His sense of humor is a bit too dry for the people he hangs out with at home. Patty thinks he’s funny, but she’s an easy target. She’s not going to believe it when he tells her he had Richie practically crying last night. Then again, Richie will laugh at anything. He laughs while telling his own jokes during his comedy specials. Patty and Stanley had watched half of one after Mike had called. It wasn’t good, and they turned it off after the eighth joke about masturbation. He hadn’t spoken to Richie in 25 years and he still knew that Richie hadn’t written any of those jokes. You don’t forget your childhood best friends’ sense of humor that easily, it turns out, just like you still know their doughnut preferences and every year on their birthday, you know that the day’s important, even if you don’t remember why.

“Are Ben and Bev back yet?” Bill asks.

“Should be soon. Richie, did you give them your keys?”

He shakes his head no.

“Yours will be the only car left at the Jade, then,” Mike says.

“What are we going to do today?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah, what’s the plan?” Bill says.

“What do you guys want to do? It’s your vacation,” Mike says.

“Strip club?” Richie asks, and gets a few napkins thrown at his face in response.

“What is there to do?” Stan asks.

“Well there’s always the Canal Days Festival. It’s the last weekend of that.”

“People and noise? Ugh,” Eddie says, sitting on the edge of Bill’s bed.

“There’s the movies.”

“We have movie theaters in our own cities,” Bill says.

“Not much shopping downtown, unfortunately. There are some antique stores.” No one sounds enthused about that. “There’s always the park.”

“That sounds boring as fuck,” Richie says.

“The only thing we’ve got on our agenda is grave desecration and we can’t do that in broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon,” Mike replies. “So let’s kill some time in between meals. Do something about this hangover.” The apple fritter Stanley picked out for him apparently wasn’t doing the trick. _OK_. _That’s fine. Whatever_.

“I brought my binoculars and field manual,” Stanley says. It’s been a long time since he saw some of the species he’d grown up watching as a kid, he wants to log some time looking for them, for old times’ sake.

“No,” Richie and Eddie say simultaneously.

“I’ll go sit in the park with you,” Bill says. “I’ve got nothing against birds.”

 _Aw, that’ll be nice. Stan and Bill, the two original Losers_.

“I like to kick seagulls,” Richie says. “Fuck those asshole seagulls. Punt them like a football.” He demonstrates, still lying on his back in the bed, and makes some explosion noises, because the birds burst into flame when you hit them, apparently.

_Plus if it’s only him and Bill, it’ll be blessedly quiet and his headache will go away._

“We can split up,” Mike says. “Seven’s a pretty big group, anyway.”

There’s a knock. Everyone shouts a variation of “Come in,” and Ben and Bev join the group, still in their running gear. They split an old-fashioned cake doughnut between them because they already ate at continental breakfast. Ben gives Beverly the bigger half. She takes the lid off one of the coffees Stan brought and dunks her doughnut in it, and Ben looks on in adoration. _Oh lord, the pining is still a thing. Here we go. Just like old times._ The run must have done them some good because they look fresh and not as if their existence is being propped up by the desiccated chitinous husk of the man they used to be, which is how Stan feels.

“Richie, your car’s still there, we figured you wouldn’t be ready to go get it yet,” Beverly says.

“It’s nice, being known,” Richie says. “I’ll do it later. I can hitch a ride with any of you guys.” He flicks Eddie on the ear, just to be an annoying piece of shit, Stan guesses. Eddie smacks at him but doesn’t move.

OK, he can admit it: he did kind of miss the slapstick routine they did. It’s fun watching other people get riled up for a change.

“I’m not your chauffeur,” Bev says.

“What are you guys planning to do today?” Bill asks.

“Ben actually mentioned that there’s a Louis Comfort Tiffany glass exhibit at the Bangor Art Museum. It’s only like half an hour away,” Bev said. “I never got to go when I was a kid, I’d like to see it. Do any of you want to come with us?”

“Oh that sounds—“ Eddie begins, clearly interested, but Ben is behind Bev’s back shaking his head vigorously and drawing a finger across his neck. “—Really boring.” Ben gives him a grateful thumbs-up.

“I forgot you guys were all artsy and shit. I want a funnel cake,” Richie says. “I’m going to the carnival.”

“You just had three doughnuts,” Stan says.

“And I want a corndog.”

“So that’s Stan and Bill birding in the park, Bev and Ben going to the museum. What about you, Eddie?” Mike asks.

“My choices are between the carnival and sitting around waiting for some birds?”

“Or the museum,” Ben says, clearly for appearance’s sake because he silently mouths, “I will kill you,” right after saying it.

“Do you have another pair of binoculars?” Eddie asks Stan.

“No.”

“I guess I’ll go to the fucking carnival, then.” He’s already rubbing his brow.

Richie fistpumps and slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “Eddie, will you win me a stuffed bear from the milk bottle game?”

“No,” Eddie deadpans, but again, he doesn’t move away from Richie.

It jars a memory. Stan flashes back to that time that summer, in the clubhouse, when Richie had insisted on overstaying his turn in the hammock, goading Eddie into climbing up into it with him. Richie has that same stupid look on his face now.

A penny drops.

 _Jesus Christ_. _That’s what that was. More pining._

Apparently Richie heard Stan’s penny drop because he looks up at him, and he knows what Stan has just figured out. For just a second, he looks scared. Stan glances away to give him some space.

“I’ll tag along to the park. We’ll meet back up here for dinner?” Mike says.

“Sounds good to me,” Ben says, clapping his hands together once with finality. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“So am I,” Bev says.

“Together?” Richie asks, calling after Ben, who’s already out the door, and Stanley could punch him for real.

“I can’t believe I actually missed this sterling wit,” Bev says, pinching his cheek while walking past. She releases his face and gives it a light slap, and then she’s gone too.

“Party foul, Richie,” Bill says, once the door closes behind them.

“What?”

“You don’t mention the sexual tension to the two people having the tension,” Bill says. “Come on. It just makes it awkward.”

“It’s just teasing. I’m being playful.”

“It’s not cool, how would you like it if--?” Stan begins, and lifts his arm to gesture between Richie and Eddie, and Richie sends him a murderous look. Mike also looks at Stan, annoyed. He must've figured it out too. _Party foul, Stan._ Richie takes his arm off of Eddie’s shoulders just as Eddie leans forward to toss his napkin in the garbage can.

 _I_ _shouldn’t have said that,_ he thinks. Richie’s defensive now. He lashes out when he’s defensive. They don’t need a sulky Richie on this trip. _Stop being cranky, Stanley, you only have so much time before you have to leave them again._

“Ben is definitely not playing,” Eddie says. He doesn’t seem to have noticed what just happened between Stan and Richie.

“Good for him,” Mike says. “He’d be good for her. I got the impression her husband’s a dick. Controlling.”

“OK, where does he live? Let’s go get him,” Richie says.

“They’re getting a divorce,” Bill says.

“Fuck, really?” Eddie says.

“She said so last night in the cab. Kinda. We didn’t really talk about it but she implied.”

“Good for her,” Stan says. “She deserves to be happy. They both do.” He corrects himself and makes eye contact with Richie. “We all do.” Richie’s eyes widen a little. A ghost of a smile crosses his face. _Message received. No harm done. Good._

“Who’s taking bets on how long it takes for Ben to shoot his shot?” Richie asks.

“No one because we’re not children anymore and it’s fucking rude to bet on your friends’ lives,” Stan says, chiding.

“Stan’s no fun as an adult,” Richie says, pouting.

“Stan wasn’t fun as a kid either,” Eddie says, and Richie laughs. They high-five.

Stan throws up his hands in a “what the fuck?” gesture, and brings them around to the front to flip a double bird at them, and he finds himself smiling. It’s been a while since he could treat someone with gentle derision. It’s boring being so respectful and respectable all the time.

He still relishes the memory of swearing at his bar mitzvah. His father had been mortified, and he took a savage pleasure in that. Teenage rebellion was only appropriate for a coming-of-age ceremony, was how he justified it to Patty later on. Richie had applauded, and Stan loved him for it. Bill had used the word “legend.”

It takes the others an hour or so to get ready. Stan calls Patty in the meantime, and checks the news, and reads Bill’s Wikipedia page. Then he reads Beverly’s, then Ben’s, then Richie’s. He’s so proud of them, which is corny, but who would’ve thought the fucked-up kids they were had grown into sane, nearly functional adults?

It’s a nice day. They find a quiet place to sit near the birdbath in Memorial Park. Bill and Mike crack open a couple cans of beer.

“Hair of the dog,” Bill says, winking behind his expensive sunglasses.

“If you’re not getting day drunk in a park with old friends, are you really living?” Mike agrees. They clink their cans. Stanley declines their offer of one for him and scans the sky. A sense of peace creeps over him, so different from the baseline of irritation and discomfort he’d been feeling all morning, ever since that dream. That memory.

Bill and Mike are talking shop about books. Mike has kept the horror section well stocked in Bill’s honor. They get onto the subject of true crime podcasts, of which they are both connoisseurs.

“Do you guys think the Robert Gray thing had anything to do with that obsession?” Mike says.

“Speak for your own obsession. I want no part of that.” Stan studiously avoids anything scary. No horror, no suspense, no true crime. Especially no true crime. A mourning dove lands in the fountain. Boring. He flips through his book and marks it, just the same.

“Most definitely,” Bill says, taking a sip.

“I can’t help myself,” Mike admits. “It’s ghoulish, but I check every book about serial killers we get in to see if Pennywise is in there.”

“Same,” Bill says. “They sometimes mention me, as part of the trivia associated with the crime. Recently, anyway, after _The Black Rapids_ blew up.”

“That sucks,” Stan says. “That should be private.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Has an interviewer or someone ever asked you about it?”

“No, because my agent tells them if they do he’ll knock their teeth out,” Bill says. “He’s a good guy.”

“I keep thinking about his fucking show at our school,” Mike says.

That’s how they’d recognized him. Under the jovial Pennywise the Dancing Clown makeup there was a monster, and the kids had seen it. Something about the guy had been …off, they agreed, watching him perform his little tricks for the rest of their first grade class, a couple years before the murders started, before they united as Losers. They couldn’t have described it, but maybe they all shared an intuition. Stan remembered that voice years later in that alley, and he remembered it now, decades later, in the park, which had previously been his sanctuary. He keeps his eyes on the birdbath, hoping for a distraction.

“That sick fuck was scoping out victims,” Bill says. “Can you believe how long it took me to put that together? That’s why he did birthday parties and shit. He didn’t like kids, he wasn’t great with kids, like the adults thought. He was looking for weakness, which kids were neglected, which ones were likely to obey him or would be separated from the pack. That’s what fucks me up. You’ve got to trust so many people with your kids. They’re exposed to hundreds of potential predators, and you might not even know.”

“The adults couldn’t tell,” Mike says. “They thought he was harmless.”

“Can we talk about something else?” _Where the fuck are all the birds?_

“I’m sorry, Stan. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. It’s almost as bad for you.”

After Georgie’s death, and some other kids went missing, Robert Gray had grabbed Stanley outside the drugstore when he’d foolishly gone out by himself before curfew, without enough time to get back before dark. He only got away by screaming and desperately kicking out at Gray. It was mere chance that he’d hit him in the groin and managed to wrench his arm free and take off running down the street. By the time he looked back, Gray had melted into the shadows.

He hadn’t told any adults because he didn’t want to get in trouble for breaking curfew. Such a stupid reason, in retrospect. But he told the Losers, and they believed him.

The Losers tried to tell their parents. Their parents didn’t believe them. They thought it was a response to trauma, acting out, or just lying for attention. They wouldn’t smear a fine upstanding member of the community based on a rambling explanation of a kid’s gut feeling and a playground story.

None of them had testified at trial, either. Bill had moved away by then, as had Beverly. His parents attended but didn’t let him. After that, the Losers drifted.

“It’s fine,” Stan says shortly, though he can feel his blood pressure rising. “It obviously could have been worse. I could’ve been Betty Ripsom. Or Patrick.” _Or Georgie._ He realizes what he said and brings his binoculars away from his eyes so he can look at Mike. “Aw, shit, Mike, I’m sorry to bring up Patrick.”

“It’s OK. It’s only natural to think about it. It’s only recently that I’d managed to forget about it for months at a time. Until this week brought it back up again, that is.”

Mike, Ben, and Bev had been down at the Barrens, hiding from Henry Bowers, the local bully and future criminally insane asylum patient, and discovered the mangled remains of Patrick Hockstetter.

“Do you still get nightmares?” asks Bill.

“Yes,” Stan and Mike answer.

“Me too.”

“He was missing his right eye. That always stuck with me. That’s what I fixated on. And it wasn’t eaten by like, vermin or whatever after the body’d been dumped. He kept it, that twisted son-of-a-bitch. It fucked me up.”

“I still wonder why,” Stan admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Why what?” Mike asks, but Stan thinks he knows.

“Why it wasn’t me,” Stan finishes. “There’s no reason it should’ve been Georgie or Patrick. Why was I the one that got away? I didn’t do anything the other kids didn’t do. I wasn’t any better than them. Why did I get to live?”

“Why couldn’t I protect my baby brother? He was just a little kid. It should’ve been me,” Bill says, and takes a swig of beer to hide the wavering in his voice.

“There is no answer,” Mike says. “There’s no reason. It just happened that way. Your luck broke that way, and theirs didn’t, and there’s nothing to do about it.”

“Tell that to a thirteen-year-old whose parents can’t even look at him,” Bill says.

“I wish I could’ve,” Mike says fervently. “I wish someone would’ve said it to me, after my parents. All anyone ever said was that it was a damn shame, but everything happens for a reason. Yeah, the reason is that life sucks and you can’t control anything. There’s no moral or lesson to be drawn from tragedy. The personal growth I got from it doesn’t make the fact that I grew up without my fucking parents any better.”

“People who say that shit are idiots,” Bill agrees. “We got so much ‘Georgie’s in a better place’ ‘God needed another angel’ bullshit. Fuck off.”

“They were trying to help, they were coming from a place of concern, I respect that, but man, it’s harmful to say that shit to anyone who’s grieving. I remember getting a lot of ‘Be grateful for the memories you have with them. No one can take those away.’ Bitch, no one’s trying to take the _memories._ This kind of empty defiance just makes my own powerlessness more clear.” Mike cracks open another beer with shaking hands. Stan signals to him to pass him one, too. He doesn’t want to drink anymore, not really; he just needs to have something to do with his hands, a pull-tab to fidget with, something solid to hold onto.

“Right? Just let me fucking grieve,” Bill says.

“My grandparents weren’t especially helpful,” Stan says. “There was a lot about how our people’s lot in life is suffering and remembrance.”

“I had that shit too!” Mike says. “Don’t make it a fucking race thing. It’s probably a race thing, everything’s a race thing, like, why were we living in a firetrap? Racist housing policy. But like, fuck, I don’t have to be the standard-bearer for my people. I don’t want to shoulder that kind of generational trauma. I’m ten years old and people are telling me I come from a long line of pain and endurance. Don’t let God put hate in my heart. I just wanted to say to them, ‘That doesn’t help me.’”

“They’d been at Birkenau,” Stan says quietly. “They were just little kids at the time.” 

“Shit,” Bill says.

“They talked about that whenever I said anything about my classmates dying. There were monsters everywhere, anyone had the potential to be a monster, and I had to just find a way to deal with it. Trust in God. At least it was only a few kids here and there, not entire families, my grandfather said once. And it fucking sucks that he had a point.”

“It’s a very different kind of fear, I think,” Bill says. “This feels more random, somehow, at least to me.”

“Yeah,” Mike says bitterly. “I know exactly why Bowers wanted to kill me. I had no fucking idea why Robert Gray would’ve wanted to. He got white kids too. And that’s why anyone cared.”

“Jesus,” Bill says.

“If it’d been me, they wouldn’t have, I firmly believe that,” Mike says.

“You’re probably right,” Stan says.

“It’s so fucked up,” Bill agrees.

They lapse into silence after that. There’s not much more to say, Bill summed it up pretty well. It’s all so fucked up.

“Patty and I are trying for kids,” Stan finally says. “She’s always wanted them. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t think I can put myself through it.”

“Audra wants them too. She knows about Georgie but she doesn’t _know._ How could she?”

“Do you want them?” Mike asks.

“I genuinely don’t know. What if I suck at it like my parents did?” Bill responds.

“You wouldn’t suck at it,” Mike says. “If anything you’d be too good at it. You’d shower that kid with affection to try to make up for what you didn’t get.”

“Exactly, that’s why I’d suck. I’d go in the opposite direction my parents did after it. Look at Eddie’s mom.”

“Shit, Eddie’s mom had her own set of issues,” Stan says. “That’s smothering.”

“I’d be so worried all the time. I wouldn’t let that kid out of my sight.”

“I get that. I didn’t get it as a kid, and I get it now. I mean, I also wouldn’t pump my kid full of placebos to control him,” Mike says. “I wouldn’t keep his friends from him. But I see an unattended kid at the library now, I immediately go into panic mode. ‘Where’s your grown-up? Are you alone? Come with me, I’ll protect you.’ I have to physically restrain myself from picking that kid up and running to safety. I have to put my hands in my pockets.”

“As if safety’s a place,” Bill says.

“Right? How do you balance that protectiveness and fear with the kid’s need to be a kid?”

“We’ve already got so many locks on our doors,” Stan says. “A high-tech alarm system too. I wanted to get a gun but Patty’s against it. Can you imagine how much worse, more paranoid, I’d be if I were responsible for a kid’s life?”

“What if I failed again?” Bill says.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mike says.

“If I’d been with him—“

“Then it’d have been both of you. It didn’t matter to him. He tried to get two kids at once before.”

Eddie and Richie could attest to that.

“I’d always kind of hoped he had gotten us both,” Bill admits. “Then I wouldn’t have had to go through it alone. Alone until the Losers Club, I mean.”

“I spent a long time wishing he’d gotten me, too,” Stan says quietly. “I tried it, once.” He turns his wrists over to reveal faded pink scars. “Years and years ago. In the bath. Patty found me.”

“I’m so sorry, Stan. Jesus,” Mike says.

“I’m in a better place now. But. Fuck.”

Mike has put an arm around his shoulders, and Bill has grabbed onto his wrist. He massages one of the scars, seemingly without even thinking about it. His hands are warm and gentle. Robert Gray’s had been cold and piercing. 

“If I’d had you guys after, it wouldn’t have happened. But we moved away so soon after.”

“I don’t think I ever forgave my parents for taking me away from here, from my friends,” Bill says.

“Staying would have been worse,” Mike says. “You’d see it every day. Every time I cross that Kissing Bridge I think about Ben and Bowers, and how that started it. That’s why we were running that day, we didn’t want a repeat of Bowers trying to carve Ben up. I was so relieved when they tore down his house on Neibolt, so there’d finally be some peace. But the absence was just as jarring.”

“I drove past it on the way in,” Bill admits. “I went out of my way to do so. I still remembered how to get there.”

“The pharmacy is still there,” Stan says. “I checked. I had to pull over. I had a panic attack. That’s why I’m fucking hungover as shit right now.”

“I’m so hungover,” Bill says. “It didn’t help at all.”

“I feel better after last night,” Mike says. “Having you here helps.”

“I’m glad we came out,” Bill says. He’s still holding Stanley’s wrist. He squeezes it a little in reassurance.

“Guys, this was supposed to be relaxing,” Stanley says, wiping his eyes, and the three of them laugh.

“Have we seen even one bird?” Mike asks.

“Fucking, no!”

“It’s 11 o’clock in the morning, I can’t believe this shit,” Bill says. “Look at us.”

They’ve started laughing and can’t stop now.

“Holy shit, we’re those guys in the park. We’re the three drunk guys sitting on a park bench, talking about how the world ain’t shit,” Mike says. “What a disaster.”

“I don’t know about you, but that was always my destiny,” Bill says. “This feels right.”

“Shut up, Mr. New York Times bestseller. You Hugo-award-winning motherfucker,” Mike says. “You turned out just fine.”

“Fuck me if I know how,” Bill says.

“I’ll drink to that,” Mike says. They clink together their cans. The headache isn’t so bad now. The sun actually feels pretty nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, way more angsty than I intended. Some of y'all like that shit, though, I see what you post. We're going back to fluff soon, I promise. Comment below if you disagree with my doughnut choices, we can fight about it.


	4. Beverly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at the art museum.

Ben’s taste in music still sucks. It’s cute. His phone automatically hooks up to the Bluetooth in his car, and the previous song blasts from the speakers.

“Papa Roach?”

“Listen. It was big when I was in college. It’s a nostalgia thing.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It kept me awake while studying and it’s good running music.”

“You liked Nickelback, didn’t you?”

“Lies! _Slander and lies!_ ” he declares. “Honestly, Beverly, even I have my limits.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. So if I go through your iTunes I won’t find the Spider-Man soundtrack?”

“No!”

“You like One Direction, don’t you?”

“No. Not all of their stuff,” Ben says quietly into the steering wheel, and Bev erupts with laughter.

“They’re talented kids,” she concedes. “Handsome little fuckers.”

“They’re no New Kids on the Block,” he says.

“You had their poster,” she says, clapping a hand to her mouth. “I completely forgot!” She’s laughing wildly again, delighted. “On your bedroom wall!”

“OK, well, we can’t all be effortlessly cool fresh from the womb like Ms. Marsh over here. Some of us were ugly ducklings, it took us a while to get going.”

“Oh but now you’re a big handsome swan, aren’t you?”

“Swan. Pfft. I’m an eagle.”

Sweet, sensitive Ben Hanscom was not an eagle, no matter how tall he got or how large his muscles were. “Penguin.”

"Penguins waddle. I'm way faster than a penguin. I stomped your ass during our run today.”

“Even so. Penguin.”

“But an Emperor penguin. One of the big ones.”

“The ones that hatch the eggs?”

“Yeah, nurturing. In touch with their feminine side. The whole package, baby.”

“That I believe,” she says, studying his profile. She’d been stunned when Mike had greeted him at the restaurant last night. _My little Ben? That can’t be him,_ she’d thought. But it was, no mistaking those eyes or that smile, the soft affection and loyalty that shone out from them. His outer transformation was just very unexpected. She hadn’t even thought to Google him in the week between Mike’s call and flying back to Derry. Too much else to do. Book the flight and the hotel.

Pack.

Call a lawyer. Then another. One for the divorce, another for the company.

Get her bank accounts and other assets switched back to her own name.

Change the locks on the door.

Give in and buy a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Just the one. Special circumstances.

Tom had hit her. Once or twice in the past, when he’d been drinking. Again when she said she was leaving to go on an impromptu weekend trip to meet up with some man she used to know.

She shouldn’t have told him the truth about who called. She’d just been unnerved, is all. To have it come back like that, so vividly, the second she heard the name “Hanlon” and “Derry.”

Patrick Hockstetter’s missing right eye.

Her dad spraying her mother’s perfume in her face. The clinking metal sound as he unbuckled his belt.

“I’ll have to ask Stan what kind of bird I am,” she says.

“Right now I’d say you’re a mockingbird,” he says, and she laughs again.

“I’m never going to let you live down your shitty music,” she says. “I’m gonna mock it until the end of time.”

“As long as we’re both around for that,” he says. She pats his hand, which is resting on his thigh.

“It’s so weird being back here, right?” They’ve just passed the library. She knows he’s not there, but she waves at Mike anyway. Send it out into the universe, it’ll come back to him when he needs a good thought.

“It’s bizarre,” he agrees, exhaling slowly.

“Do you still dream about it?”

“Hockstetter? Yes.”

“Me too.”

“What’s fucked up is I think about Bowers more,” he says. (They haven’t gotten to the Kissing Bridge yet, but Bev has been dreading seeing it again.) “Every time I look in the mirror and see my stomach.”

She’s going to say, “What, posting pictures of your abs on the internet after workouts? Is that when you see your stomach?” but she doesn’t want to ruin the moment by joking. It was a serious thing for him. He doesn’t process things through humor like she and Richie did. She needs to be serious too, to meet him where he is.

“I still can’t believe he did that,” she says quietly. “That he got away with that.” Ben nods tightly. “What a fucking sociopath.”

He smiles. “Well said.”

“Do you know what happened to him?” she asks.

“He’s in an insane asylum.”

“Bullshit. Why?”

“I looked him up years ago. Just to see, after a nightmare. He tried to kill a Congressman.”

“You’re _kidding._ ”

“I’m dead serious.”

“ _What_?”

“Full-on _Taxi Driver_ , John Hinckley, Squeaky Fromme shit. He had a shotgun and was stopped at a campaign rally, high off his ass on meth.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“He’d killed his dad just before going to the rally. Declared not guilty by reason of insanity. Been locked up since 1996.” 

Bev whistles. “That is _wild._ ”

“That’s Derry.”

They’ve just passed the city limits. What if she and Ben just kept on driving and never went back? She didn’t need most of the stuff she’d packed. She could buy more, which was weird enough to think about, after being poor for so long. She could just ask him to keep driving, and he’d do it because she wanted him to, and he’d always liked making her happy. He was so devoted to all of the Losers. She can’t match that.

“After that summer, we moved away and I just never looked back. I couldn’t,” she says.

“I did all the time. I couldn’t stop. You, the Losers, you all meant so much to me. I’ve never felt as loved and appreciated as I did then, fucked up as that is, since there were kids dying. But with you, with y’all, I was safe. We kept each other safe. And when we split up, the spell was broken.”

_Y’all. That’s right, he lives in Nebraska now._

“I’m really sad that we didn’t write letters or call or something. Make more of an effort to be part of each others’ lives. That’s the biggest regret of my life,” he says.

_Just that? That’s the biggest one? Oh, honey. We’ve had such different lives._

“I wish we would’ve too. It got lonely for a while.”

Ben just nods. That was what had drawn the Losers together. They recognized it in each other, as they’d recognize a family resemblance or a constellation in the night sky or the tune to a half-forgotten song.

And Ben had been lonelier than the rest of them. You could smell it on him. The day she’d signed his yearbook, she saw a fat little nerd dropping all of his shit and her first impulse was to shelter that fat little nerd because everyone else would see his vulnerability and attack to make themselves feel strong. The only protection she could offer him was her approval, but it seemed to be enough to keep him going. And he’d brought her into the Losers Club, by again presenting an opportunity to help.

Beverly had been beautiful her whole life. She was also sad, and beautiful and sad were a deadly combination. Men panted after her, especially men who were old enough to know better and gross enough not to care. So distracting the guy behind the drugstore counter so Eddie and the others could steal supplies to patch up Ben was as easy as blueberry pie. It barely even bothered her, since it was for a good cause. She and Bill were already acquainted (infamous kiss scene in the school play; her first kiss, her first crush) and her participation in stitching up Ben earned her entry into the first and last exclusive Members-Only group of her life. She was grateful to him forever after that, and he felt that way about her, too. She always knew she was his favorite.

The fierce protectiveness had never gone away, it had only grown to encompass Mike, the other sore thumb sticking out of that fist. They’d immediately adopted Mike, and a few days after the rock fight with the other boys against Bowers and his gang, they ran from another encounter with Henry at the Kissing Bridge, and they stumbled across Patrick Hockstetter.

His pants had been down around his ankles and it made Beverly furious. At least give him the respect of covering him up. He was bleeding from the rectum, from the ribs, from the neck, and from the eye socket. The eye was gone.

Her father had been livid that she’d been tramping around with a black boy, the little slut, who did she think she was? He hadn’t even asked if she was OK when he picked her up from the station after she gave her witness statement.

There’s a copy of Bill’s newest book on the dashboard. The spine wasn’t cracked—he must have gotten it at the airport.

“Have you read it?” she asks, gesturing to it.

“Nah, not yet. But I’ve bought all of them.”

“Have you read any of the others?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. I only learned he was a writer when Mike told me.”

Not true. He’d written her that postcard, hadn’t he, way back when? Of course he’d continue writing for other people. He couldn’t speak with clarity, so writing was the only thing that helped him communicate. He was good at it, when it was important. Bill had asked how she was immediately. 

“Oh, I’d recognized the name and the author photo on the first one. So I bought them, you know, whenever they’d come out. When someone used to mean something to you, you like to honor that somehow, however you can,” Ben was saying.

“But you didn’t read any of them?” Teasing again. He blushed so easily. It was very endearing.

“Hey, I’m a busy person, OK?”

“True. Those buildings won’t design themselves. Those abs won’t shred themselves.”

He laughs, embarrassed. Hopefully pleased. She was sick of people commenting on her appearance, but she still put effort into it. It was important. It was sometimes fun. It wasn’t the most important thing about her, but it made it easier. People focused on that instead of on her flaws, which she wore just as obviously, she feared. Maybe if she was pretty enough (but not too pretty! That caused problems too) and quiet enough, people would leave her alone. Beverly had been beautiful her whole life, but Ben was new to it. He was still surprised by compliments. He was even more flabbergasted when they were sincere. That was also cute. 

They discuss what he’s working on now, and she talks about her fashion lines and the licensing and whatnot, and that takes them through the forty-minute drive up to college campus on which the museum sits.

It’s a nice little building. Small. Gray. There are some sculptures and stuff outside.

“Well? What’s the verdict?” she asks him.

“I’d have done it differently,” he sniffs, and she laughs.

She pays the entrance fees (“You got dinner last night,” “Beverly no,” “Stop being chivalrous, it’s embarrassing,”) and they got their little lapel stickers. Ben picks up a gallery map and brochure (for a souvenir. _Sentimental. Softie. Also cute_ ).

“Shall we?” he asks, extending his arm, giving her a look that says, “No, I will not stop being chivalrous.” She takes it.

They head on over to the Tiffany exhibit first. Stained glass windows, mosaics, lampshades, doors, set in finely wrought iron, over 100 years old. Beautiful, delicate, but enduring. They take a selfie in front of some of the more expansive pieces, Bev positioning them so the colors would pop just right, emphasizing the red of her hair, the blue of her eyes, the green shirt he’s wearing.

One of the windows has a lamp shining behind it, so the colors spill down onto the floor in a kaleidoscope. He takes her picture under that, a rainbow splashed across her upturned face.

“Send it to me,” she says upon seeing it. She looks angelic. Her, dirty little Beverly Marsh, coarse and common, looking heavenly. It makes her ache.

He sends it to the group chat instead. “Look at this piece of art,” he writes.

“I’m trying to, tell Bev to get out of the way,” Richie texts back.

She texts back a picture of her outstretched middle finger in front of the same window.

Her favorite pieces are the jewelry. Inevitably, perhaps. Fashion. Self-ornamentation. Create yourself anew. That’s her shit. She’s been doing that as long as she’s been walking.

The exhibit is too small to spend much time in. It’s crowded, and they see the entirety of it quickly.

“Scavenger hunt?” she asks, gesturing to the rest of the museum.

“Absolutely. What are we looking for in the paintings?”

“Butts?”

“I was gonna say Losers doppelgangers.”

“Losers butt doppelgangers?”

Ben laughs and blushes again. _It’s too easy._ He agrees.

There are plenty of butts in the paintings. They take pictures of themselves pointing at them. Any particularly firm one she suggests as his doppelganger, to the point where it becomes a running joke that whoever finds one the fastest after they enter a new room is the winner.

Finding anyone that looks like the rest of the Losers is more difficult.

“This is hard,” he says. “I haven’t really been paying attention to everyone’s asses.”

“I barely even need to look anymore. I see so many asses, I can tell what they’re going to look like and what’s going to fit them without even thinking about it,” she says.

“Is it a professional interest or a hobby?” he asks, and she snorts with laughter.

There are people who are good to go to museums with, and there are people who are not good to go to museums with. Richie would be an awful person to go to a museum with, for example. Stan would be adequate. Mike would be pretty good. Ben is a great person to go to museums with. He’s interested, goofy but respectful, and he considers each piece carefully. (The famous ones are all replicas, but they do have some interesting contemporary stuff by locals.) He tells her about the interiors of paintings by the Dutch masters, the soaring cathedrals, the arches of the doorways. He talks her ear off about frescoes and buttresses.

She explains some of the symbolism in the paintings, especially in portraiture. Virtually all of the symbolism is about either death or sexual impurity. That’s her shit. Those are the two bullets she’s been dodging her whole life, from those girls writing mean things about her in the bathroom to her dad accusing her of slutting around with Mike and her husband accusing her of the same.

“Look at the way he’s painted the fire, isn’t that beautiful?” Ben says, pointing to a hearth in a winter domestic scene. “Look at the brush strokes.”

Maybe it’s because she thought of the poem in the car, or because it’s been on her mind all week, or because the scene itself brings comfort to her in the way the postcard had when she needed it, but she murmurs, “January embers,” to herself without knowing she was doing it until Ben looks at her funny.

“What?” he asks.

“Winter fire. January embers,” she says, embarrassed. That was her secret, and now she’s left out here feeling exposed. “It’s from a poem.”

“What poem?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, stammering nervously. _Get it together, Bev._ “I’m not sure if it’s famous or anything, I don’t know anything about poetry. I found it once, and it just stuck with me, is all. I read it a long time ago. Forget about it.”

“My heart burns there too,” he says, after a brief pause, so quietly she’s not sure she’s heard him right.

“You’ve read it?” she asks, her own heart pounding in her ears.

“I wrote it,” he says softly. “I wrote that for you.”

“You what?”

“That was me,” he says. “I wrote you that poem. I sent you that postcard. I didn’t think you got it. You never mentioned it so I let it go.”

“How could I mention it? You didn’t sign it,” she says faintly, searching his face.

It makes perfect sense, now that she knows the truth, she can feel the rightness in it as the pieces slot into place, but she’s still at sea. He’s looking at her with a pained tenderness she’s never seen before but instantly recognizes.

“I was too scared,” he says. “I couldn’t talk about it. I still can’t talk about it, to be honest. I’m losing my fucking mind here.”

He looks ready to bolt but is only standing his ground because he doesn’t see another realistic way out of the situation, like he’s resigned to go down swinging.

“Ben,” she says, still not sure what to do. She should bolt. She’s spent her whole life calibrating her actions to the people around her, gauging what their response will be if she does something, if it’ll be worth it to say what she thinks, what needs to be said, or if she should just say what she knows will end the conversation. But here, she has no idea what will get her out of this.

Does she even want to escape?

“I was so in love with you back then,” he admits. “Not a crush or puppy love. Adoration. Idolization. I worshipped you.”

“I—“

“I kept that yearbook page. I still have it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose in humiliation. “God, that’s so lame. It’s in my wallet.”

“Hey. Stop it,” she says, bringing his hand down from his face. “Don’t be embarrassed. That is the most romantic fucking thing I have ever heard in my entire goddamn life. I can’t believe it’s about _me._ ”

Her, dirty little Beverly Marsh. Cigarettes and bruises and vulgarity.

“I just. I didn’t want to see you again and not tell you,” he says, looking her dead in the eye. “How much you meant.”

“Thank you for telling me,” she says. “Thank you for feeling that way about me.”

“How could I not, Beverly? You saw me. You understood me. You protected me. I was a goner.”

His hand is trembling in hers. He’s biting his lip nervously. _That’s…fucking adorable._

“Hey,” she says, squeezing his hand. She puts her other on his neck, and goes up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his mouth.

He’s so gentle, like she’s a priceless piece of stained glass. The touch of his fingers on her jaw are feather-light. She’s used to being treated roughly. She’s not used to this.

She could get used to it.

She pulls away, and he looks completely overwhelmed.

“Let’s keep going,” she says, pulling him along to the next painting. She doesn’t let go of his hand. She pulls his arm around her waist. He’s obviously strong, his grip is sure. He could easily hurt her.

He never would.

That's enough to start with. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't even going to write this fic and then I realized Ben and Bev were both designers and that they would like art museums, and then I went hog wild. It's funny because one of the things I hated most about the book was that Beverly couldn't be mentioned without King talking about how pretty she looked, and then they went and cast my wife Jessica Chastain as Bev and I had to refrain from calling her a goddess every other paragraph.


	5. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emotionally trying day. 
> 
> (cw for a reference to a homophobic hate crime and the f-slur)

Going to the festival was a big fucking mistake. First of all, crowds. People who live in small cities don’t know how to walk in crowds. No sense of traffic flow. If Richie has to break his stride to accommodate some idiot who stops in the middle of the path for no goddamn reason one more time, he’s going to stab someone in the neck.

Second, Eddie wouldn’t go on any of the rides with him. Not even the Ferris Wheel.

“Fuck that shit, Richie, I’m not going into any one of those death traps.”

“Ferris Wheels are structurally really sound, I read a book about it once. Ask Ben.”

“You have not read a fucking book. No. That thing’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“If it weren’t safe it wouldn’t be here.”

“How do you think safety warnings come into being? Someone gets hurt or killed and they get sued and then they have to issue a warning to avoid liability. I’m not finding the engineering flaw in these things by getting my arm pulled out of its socket, no fucking thank you.”

“That’s OK, you’re probably too short to go on them.”

“Fuck you, I’m average height.”

They split a funnel cake, though. Eddie gets powdered sugar all over himself, despite his best efforts. Richie dabs a tiny dot of it onto the tip of Eddie’s nose, like he’s standing in a kitchen in a fucking Nancy Meyers movie. He can’t help himself. _Cute, cute, cute._ Eddie furiously wipes it away, so Richie does it again.

Some people are just fun to annoy. Eddie has always been _so fun_ to annoy. He’d do it the rest of his life, if he could.

_Shut up, Richie. Beep the fucking beep back up._

They have corndogs dipped in chocolate. Because this is America. “Eddie, look, there have been advances in corndog technology.” Of course Richie tries one.

“It’s great because it’s savory _and_ sweet,” he tells Eddie. “Wanna bite?” It’s actually disgusting, but the look on Eddie’s face makes him laugh, so he finishes the whole thing.

They try the shooting gallery. Eddie is actually a pretty good shot. He wins a stupid beaver hat that says I ♥ Derry on it. Eddie presents it to Richie without even asking because he knows he’ll want to wear it all fucking day, again, just to annoy Eddie.

“Really? You’re not going to make any vagina jokes?” Eddie asks.

“What? No?”

“’I haven’t worn a beaver this big since the last time I fucked your mom’ etc.? They write themselves.”

“Eddie, that’s so childish. She’s dead, have some respect.”

Eddie just flattens his mouth into a straight line, like that wiener dog meme Richie’s seen 1000 times.

There’s not a lot to do at the fair other than eat and ride rides and win more dumb prizes that they’re just going to throw away instead of trying to fit them in their carry-ons (not that there’s room in either of Eddie’s bags). They walk around for about an hour and a half, just shooting the shit, catching up. It’s almost fun, being back here, making Eddie laugh. It brings back a lot of memories. Some of them are even good memories, believe it or not.

Mike has set up a little exhibit of Derry’s history. Some schoolchild had made a diorama of the factory explosion that happened during the Easter Egg Hunt. He made sure to include a decapitated head in one of the trees. Tasteless. Richie loves it. He texts Mike a picture of it asking if it’s for sale.

“No, Richie,” Mike texts back. He knows Mike sighed heavily while sending it. (Mike is also fun to annoy. It’s Eddie, Stan, Mike, that’s the ranking of most fun. Bev isn’t fun to annoy because she gives as good as she gets. Picking on Ben and Bill just seems kinda mean.)

They’re waiting in line to get a beer when it happens. He looks up behind the counter to order and the guy there looks familiar, and his nametag says Connor, and he looks like Henry Bowers, and _Jesus fucking tapdancing Christ,_ it’s Connor fucking Bowers serving the drinks.

_Fuck._

Richie doesn’t panic, per se, but he does forget what their order is. Eddie has to ask for two cups of whatever’s on tap. Richie wordlessly hands over his credit card.

“I knew you looked familiar,” Connor says, glancing down at the name on the card. “Richie Tozier! You do that thing, with the Great Turtle.”

Richie is going to die. _That’s not even my joke! It’s not even a good not-my-joke!_

“Yeah, that’s me.” He forces a smile.

“It’s me, Connor Bowers! We played Street Fighter that one time like all day. I kicked your ass at it.” Eddie looks back and forth between Richie and Bowers with interest.

“Impossible, I was the master of that game,” Richie says, knowing he’s sweating now.

“No, I remember. Don’t you?”

“Sorry, bud. Bowers? Like Henry?”

“Yeah, that was my cousin.”

“Oh. Sorry, man. What’s he up to?”

Connor frowns. “He’s good, he’s good. Nothing much.”

“Well, this has been fun. Excuse me,” Richie says, taking the giant cups of beer off the counter and handing one to Eddie.

“Can I get a selfie?”

Richie screams internally. Eddie is going to give him so much shit.

“Sorry, I’m uh, I’m doing the incognito thing.”

“You might want to take off that hat, then,” Connor says.

“Why?” Eddie asks.

“You didn’t hear?”

“No, we just got into town.”

“They killed some queer last month for wearing one. Beat the shit out of him and threw him off the bridge into the river.”

“Oh.” Eddie looks like he’s going to be sick. Richie knows he’s going to be.

“Oh look, fried butter on a stick,” Richie says. “Gotta go, come on, Eddie.” And he fucking books it.

“Dude you didn’t get your credit card back.”

“I’ll fucking cancel it. Hold this,” he says, handing Eddie his beer. He ducks behind one of the exhibit tents and vomits up the doughnuts and the funnel cake and the corndog.

“Holy shit, are you OK?” Eddie sets down the beers, carefully sidesteps the puke, and rubs Richie’s back. He removes the hat from Richie’s head and stuffs it into his back pocket.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, then reconsiders and gags up some more sour bile.

“What the fuck just happened?” Eddie says.

“I don’t want to get into it,” Richie says. “Can we go?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s get out of here, it fucking sucks here.”

Richie takes his cup of beer, swills some around in his mouth, and spits it out. Eddie hands him a napkin. He wipes his mouth and tosses the napkin on the ground. _Sorry, earth. Sorry, underpaid worker who’s going to have to clean that up_ , he thinks.

They walk to the parking lot in silence, Eddie having trouble keeping up with Richie’s long strides. He spills a little bit of beer on himself, but he doesn’t even bitch at Richie about it.

“Actually, can we walk around a little?” Richie asks. “I’m still super hungover, I don’t want to get motion-sick in the car.”

“Yeah, whatever you need,” Eddie says. He’s looking at Richie with such concern and confusion that Richie wants to hide somewhere and cry. Eddie reaches for his hand, and Richie actually yanks his back, out of the way.

“Not here, please. Fuck.” _I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry._

“Richie, what’s--?”

“Let’s just go.”

“OK, fuck this place. Lead the way.”

Richie doesn’t even know they’re going to the Kissing Bridge until it’s in view. He tries to turn away, but Eddie keeps walking, so Richie has to go too.

There are flowers and teddy bears and rainbow flags in the middle of the bridge. A small cross. A laminated obituary of a young man named Adrian Mellon. The date of death is June 23.

“They killed him during Pride,” Eddie says. “Fuck.”

Above the makeshift memorial is the word FAGOT carved in jagged letters.

Richie can’t help it. He bursts into tears. Eddie looks bewildered.

“Hey, come here.” He pulls Richie into a hug, and Richie sobs like he hasn’t since his mother died. Heaving, shuddering, gasping sobs. He gets snot all over the collar of Eddie’s polo and feels terrible about it. Eddie is shushing and soothing and rubbing circles into his back, so it’s not the _worst_ moment of his life, but it’s pretty bad.

He finally pulls himself together enough to wipe his eyes and blow his nose with another napkin Eddie holds out to him.

“Did you know him?” Eddie asks softly.

“No. No, I didn’t know him.”

“Oh.”

“Uh, I need to get away from here. I can’t look at this anymore.”

He also can’t go to the other end of the bridge and risk Eddie seeing some of the graffiti he left there in 1989.

“Come on, let’s go this way,” Eddie says, and they turn to head back the way they came. “Wait.” He takes the beaver hat out of his back pocket and puts it on the head of one of the teddy bears.

 _I love him so much,_ Richie thinks, and feels sick again. _Fuck._

He’d been hoping his enormous crush on Eddie had gone away, only to realize he couldn’t unring that bell (or that gong) as soon as he walked into the Jade of the Orient and saw Eddie standing there. Neurotic, angry, brave Eddie. His first experience pining after a straight guy, but not the last. _Pathetic._

No, it was worse as an adult. Worse because Eddie was married to a woman exactly like his mom, and didn’t even know that he was repeating the same patterns that had fucked him up as a kid. Worse because even if Richie hadn’t had thirty years’ worth of gooey feelings about Eddie ferreted away in his psyche, he still would’ve flirted with Eddie at the Chinese restaurant, because Eddie was exactly his type. He was attracted to Eddie in every way possible. And it brought back everything he’d run away from.

They walk in silence for a long time, skirting the fairgrounds and heading back into town.

“Does that happen to you a lot?” Eddie asks.

“The throwing up or the crying?”

“The fans recognizing you out in public.”

“Yeah but it’s in LA so people know to be fucking cool about it and pretend they don’t know who I am,” Richie says.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Anything, man.” He braces himself.

“Your Great Turtle jokes suck.”

Richie laughs in relief. “I didn’t write them.”

“I knew it!” Eddie says, far too triumphantly for the situation, if Richie’s being honest. _Read the room, Eddie. I'm very fragile right now._ “I watched some of your stand-up this week and I was like, God, that doesn’t sound like Richie at all. Where are the dumb voices?”

“That shit didn’t play well. I adapted.”

“You sold out, I think you mean.”

“Jesus, stab me in the heart, why don’t you,” Richie says.

“The truth hurts, bro.” _Well if that wasn’t fucking relevant right now._ “You should write your own shit, I know you’d be good.”

“Eddie, people don’t want to hear jokes about child murder and middle-aged, sad, closeted gay dudes,” Richie says, and then he has to fucking stop and facepalm because goddammit, that just slipped out. His life is fucking ruined. _Nice work, you fucking moron._

“Uh?” Eddie clearly has no clue what to do. 

Richie does the only thing he can think of. “ _FUUUUUUCK_ ,” he screams. He steps into the nearest alley. Eddie follows.

“You’re--?”

“A fag, yes,” Richie says.

“Dude, don’t call yourself that, what the fuck.”

“It’s true, man.”

“So? Don’t throw that shit at yourself. Bowers did enough of that for your whole life.”

And that was true. Both Bowerses did. Connor Bowers had been right. Richie had played Street Fighter with him all day, and had lost on purpose so he could keep challenging Connor to rematches. He’d developed a small crush on him. Then Henry had come along and shouted slurs at him, which wasn’t in itself unusual, he did that to every kid he hated, but this time Richie was sure the truth of it was obvious, and he ran out of the arcade so fast one of his shoes flew off and he had to go back and get it.

“ _Shit_ ,” Eddie says, mentally putting some pieces together. “I’m so sorry, man. God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s whatever.”

“Dude, it doesn’t have to be fine. It’s fucked up.”

“Fuck, man, you don’t know the half of it. Remember at the movie theater?”

“Yeah.”

They’d been in the balcony, watching some shitty horror movie about a werewolf or something, spilling popcorn everywhere and spitting their soda at each other. Robert Gray had sat behind them. He followed them out into the lobby when the film was over. He walked in between them and grasped both of their hands, pulling them towards a blue car. Richie remembered that his were sticky, and when he’d ripped his hand out of Gray’s grip his skin had made a sound like velcro. He ran, and Eddie did too, but Eddie tripped, fell off the curb, reached his hand out to catch himself, and snapped his wrist like a biscotti. Gray walked up to them, pretending to be a concerned citizen offering to help the crying injured child. Richie did the only thing he was good at: he caused a scene, yelling and swearing at Gray to stay the fuck away in every dumbass shitty Voice he could think of, until Gray held up his hands and walked away, as if he’d honestly tried to help but these ungrateful bastards could do whatever they wanted, he’d washed his hands of it.

Eddie had been grounded for weeks.

“I thought he tried to get us because he knew. I thought he was after me because he knew I was gay and he was a pervert, and he thought I was a pervert too. Because I was.”

“Holy shit.”

“And it was my fault that you were there too, he’d have gotten you because you were dumb enough to be friends with a fucking fag.”

“Dude,” Eddie says, horrified.

“It was the ‘80s, man. I was positive I’d die of AIDS and my own mom wouldn’t want to bury me.”

“Richie. God. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“It, uh, it fucked me up.”

“That’s a hell of an understatement.”

“Anyway. That’s what that was all about back there.”

Eddie gives him a hug so tight he can’t breathe. “ _Fuck_ this place. I hate it here so much. We’re never coming back here again.”

“If it hadn’t been for Georgie I wouldn’t have come back at all. I love Mike but Jesus, no way. But I knew Georgie, I couldn’t not come and pay my respects.”

“That’s incredibly brave of you,” Eddie says. “To come back. After all that.”

“Well.”

“I mean it.”

“I wanted to see you again. And the others. I always regretted letting you guys slip away.”

Eddie smiles sadly. “Me too.”

“So at least one good thing happened here.”

“Last night was pretty good.”

“That’s true.” He giggles. “The Segway.”

Eddie laughs too. “Fucking Stan. I missed him so much. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna go get the car, and we’re gonna get some bad food, and we’re gonna go to the quarry and get the others to join us and we’re gonna listen to music and sit in the sun and talk shit. OK?”

“Eduardo, that sounds perfect.”

So that’s what they do. Burgers and fries and extremely specific Spotify playlists Richie made with music Eddie's never heard of and names like "walking at night through Beverly Hills and there's a vampire chasing you" and "conquering the world one dildo at a time." They text the group and tell them to join them, and Mike, Stan, and Bill arrive shortly thereafter, also looking emotionally worn out. Ben and Bev text them pictures of butts from the museum, and then they’re on their way too. It’s late afternoon by the time they drive up, and early evening by the time they decide they’re hungry enough to head back.

“Wait,” Richie says. “Let’s go swimming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Richie refers to is The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. Half of it is about architecture at the Chicago World's Fair, the other half is about HH Holmes, America's first serial killer, and his GIANT FUCKING MURDER CASTLE. It's a great read, would recommend. 
> 
> Sorry that this chapter's pretty angsty and dark too but like, it's Derry. I will deliver more fluff.


	6. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those rituals, man, they're intricately constructed.

None of them thought to bring any swimsuits. No one wants to bring it up first.

“So, like, in our jeans?” Ben finally says.

Stan wrinkles his nose. “That’ll chafe. No thank you.”

“Ugh, fine,” Bev says, and strips to her underwear. “It’s only weird if we make it weird, so don’t make it weird.”

“That’s as fine a philosophy as any I’ve ever heard,” Mike says, pulling off his shirt.

“Boxers stay on, everyone,” Bill says.

“For now, anyway,” Richie says, and Eddie blushes. “Jesus, am I the only one not ripped?” Eddie takes a glance at all the others, who are still disrobing or peering over the edge of the quarry.

Bev looks like a goddess disguising herself as a human but not doing a very good job because she’s still unearthly beautiful. She’s always been like that. Ben has an honest-to-god sixpack. They’re pretending not to check each other out, but no one is fooled. Mike looks like he’d have thousands of Instagram followers if he posted exactly one shirtless photo. Major thirst trap. Lifting all those books must be a great workout. Or there’s nothing else to do in Derry but exercise and read. Bill looks like he runs marathons. Classically handsome. Stanley’s got more of a yoga and swimming physique. Richie is well. Richie. He’s got a small paunchy stomach but wide fucking shoulders and long, well defined legs. Strong forearms. He looks solid. He’s got only four, maybe five inches on Eddie, but they’re important inches. Eddie could climb him like a tree, if he wanted.

“I’m not ripped, just skinny,” Eddie says.

“No, I see some muscle definition,” Richie says, “Got some pecs, traps. Biceps.”

“Are you just naming the muscles you know?”

“Yes,” Richie says, still staring at Eddie’s bare skin.

“My eyes are up here,” Eddie jokes uncomfortably.

“I already know what your eyes look like,” Richie says, his own eyes moving down the trail of hair leading to Eddie’s waistline. Eddie feels blood rushing to his cheeks. He ducks his head.

“Let’s get in the water before it gets dark. Last one in’s a rotten egg!” Mike shouts, running off the edge. Everyone follows, jumping into the water.

They splash and swim and play Marco Polo until the golden hour ends and the stars come out. Time to go home. They start making their way to the shallows.

Eddie’s quiet, trailing behind the others.

“You OK, Spaghetti?” Richie asks, turning back towards him.

“Yeah,” he says. "Just thinking.” He reaches out a hand. Richie grabs it and pulls him forward, towing him until they’re about chest deep.

"You look worried."

"I'm actually really happy."

"Is that a problem?" Richie asks. _Yeah, kinda,_ Eddie thinks. How's he going to go back to what he had before? 

It’s then that they notice Bev and Ben kissing sweetly. They’ve gone a short distance away, trying to be discreet, but Ben’s practically lifting her off her feet. He’s really giving it his all, even Richie with his glasses obscured by drops of water can tell. Richie opens his mouth, ready to shout something obnoxious, but Eddie claps his hand over it.

“Don’t, dude, give them some space,” Eddie says. Richie licks Eddie’s palm and grins when Eddie shoves his head away.

“You’re so disgusting,” Eddie says, laughing.

“You like it,” Richie says.

“Yeah but shhh, don’t tell anyone,” Eddie says. Somehow he and Richie have ended up back to front, so close their bodies are warming each other in the cool water. They’re still holding hands.

“Hey, uh, back there, thanks for—“ Richie says.

“Dude, of course.”

“I just—“

“Don’t even mention it. I won’t tell anyone.”

“You can. It’s OK. I’m just. It sucks.”

Richie squeezes his hand. He draws his thumb over Eddie’s knuckles, and Eddie shivers just a little bit. Richie’s eyes are serious. That never happens. Eddie’s not sure what to do, but he thinks he wants to kiss Richie. He thinks Richie wants to kiss him back.

Someone wolf whistles, and Eddie and Richie look over. Bill and Mike are catcalling Ben and Bev, who have broken apart and are making vulgar gestures at the other two. Stanley’s just laughing.

Eddie looks back at Richie, but the moment’s gone.

“Can we get something to eat?” Richie yells.

“Not Chinese,” Mike calls.

“Pizza!” Eddie hollers, right in Richie’s ear. Ben and Bev cheer in response, and head for the shallows to join the others.

“Come on, climb on up,” Richie says, offering Eddie his back.

“Piggyback? Hell yeah,” Eddie says, placing his hands on Richie’s shoulders. Richie grabs his legs and Eddie loops his arms around Richie’s neck. Richie trudges up towards the others.

“God, you weigh a ton,” he says. “Just like your mom.”

“Am I tiny or am I huge? Make up your mind,” Eddie replies.

“You’re just the right size,” Richie says. “I couldn’t lift Mike like this, he’s a brick house.”

“Dude, what the fuck, right?” Eddie asks. “Why’d we miss the boat on that one?”

“Right? They all look incredible, and I’m just like, Lurch.”

“You’ve got the shoulders,” Eddie says. “And the posture.”

“True.”

“You look like the guy from Flight of the Conchords.”

“Not really but gee, thanks.”

“Hey, I like him, he’s hotter than the other one.”

“Hotter than Bret? No way. Bret’s got an Oscar.”

“I swear. Glasses, dark hair, strong jaw. It’s a good look.”

“Shut up, I’m blushing.”

He’s not. He might be. Eddie can’t see his face. Eddie kinda feels like he’s blushing too. Admitting in a roundabout way that your best friend is hot, that’s not really something he’s done before. He’s never even hinted to anyone that he might be into guys. Well, definitely into guys. Especially one guy. Let alone to the guy in question.

“They’re nice dudes,” Richie says awkwardly.

“Funnier than you,” Eddie says.

“Who isn’t?” Richie says.

“Good point,” Eddie says, and Richie chuckles.

“Can I get a piggyback ride too?” Bill asks as they walk up to meet the others.

“Nope.”

“Where’s good pizza around here, Mike?” Bev asks. Ben stands behind her, his arms around her waist. Eddie looks at them, then down at Richie’s head, then back at them. He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip. Richie responds in kind.

“There is no good pizza around here,” Mike says.

“I’ll settle for adequate,” Stanley says.

“Gino’s delivers,” Mike replies. “They have good cheesy bread.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel, we can get it delivered while we clean up,” Bev says.

“Aye aye, captain,” Richie says. He walks a few paces forward. “Eddie my love, I’ve gotta set you down. My knees are not good enough for this.”

“Getting old,” Eddie says, sliding down from his perch, splashing down into the ankle-deep water. He goes for Richie’s hand instead.

“I’ve aged like 87 years in this one weekend,” Richie says, swinging their joined hands back and forth. “I fucking hate it here. No offense.”

“You’re looking pretty decrepit,” Mike says.

“You’re one to talk,” Richie says.

“I look distinguished,” Mike says. “Like Denzel.”

“I look like shit,” Ben says, and everyone laughs because no he doesn’t, and he knows it.

They collect their shoes and clothes and personal effects and get into their cars to head back into town. Ben and Bev are holding hands too. No one mentions how closely Richie and Eddie are sticking to each other but he’s positive they all notice. _And so what?_

“I’m going to eat an entire pizza myself and then sleep for three days,” Richie says. “Just gonna hibernate.”

“That sounds amazing,” Stanley says, getting into the passenger seat in Eddie's car. 

They drive back and everyone goes to their rooms at the hotel. Eddie goes into his, sighs deeply, grabs his shower stuff and reenters the hallway to knock on Richie’s door.

“Can I use your shower? Mine doesn’t have a shower curtain and the water comes out rusty.”

Richie doesn’t even question him. “Of course, man. You can even go first.”

“Thanks,” Eddie says.

Richie’s room is clean, shockingly. Then Eddie realizes that there’s a bunch of stuff neatly arranged at the end of the bed, which means a housekeeper had been there and tidied up everything that had been on the floor, which was a lot. _Dammit, Richie._

He goes into the bathroom and looks in the mirror. He looks like hell.

“I’m assuming you’ve got like special shampoo and shit?”

“Of course I do,” Eddie says. “Hotel shampoo is gross and they don’t give you enough.”

“You haven’t changed one bit,” Richie says, smiling widely.

“My therapist says that too,” Eddie deadpans. “She’s very disappointed.”

“’She’s very disappointed.’ Name of your sex tape.”

“Shut up and get out,” Eddie says.

“Got your towel?”

“Yes, Douglas Adams, I have my towel.”

Richie grins. “I’ll be just outside, making sure no one comes in to stab you.”

“Great, thanks. Tell Mike if he puts mushrooms or olives on the pizza I will shave off his eyebrows while he sleeps.”

“You got it, bud,” Richie says. “See you in half an hour.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says.

“Just try to save some hot water for me.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, that quarry was gross, I’m never going to feel clean again.”

“Tell me if you find any leeches.”

“Dude shut up, oh my god.”

Richie waggles his eyebrows and leaves.

Eddie waits until the door closes to start undressing. Going through the motions of showering is automatic and soothing. It gives him time to think.

The butterflies when Mike had said Richie was going to be in Derry that prompted him to accept the invitation immediately. The way his heart pounded when he looked up some of Richie’s videos and heard his voice for the first time in 25 years. And when he saw Richie again, the sheer joy at drinking with him and joking around with him, as if they’d never lived apart, that hadn’t made it clear, but it gave him an inkling. As childhood memories trickled back, they brought with them every time Eddie had felt that way before, every time he’d been afraid of embarrassing himself in front of Richie, every time he’d wanted to reach out and touch him. It had been often. How could he have forgotten? 

He'd always controlled himself enough not to lay a hand on Richie. Even yesterday, while he was wasted. 

But after that to-do with Bowers today. Christ. That changed pretty much everything.

It was always pretty obvious from Richie’s constant joking that he was trying to cover up something, but that could’ve been anything: fear about Robert Gray, his hurt at his distant parents, desperation to be liked, insecurity about being a gangly four-eyed freak. Eddie hadn’t even thought homosexuality was an option until this weekend, when Richie started making jokes about how hot Ben and Mike were, but he’d always made sex jokes, that was his thing. He'd always been very tactile, too, so how handsy he'd been at the restaurant and this morning wasn't really a trustworthy indicator. When they'd been at the quarry, they'd barely been apart, always touching in some way: sitting shoulder to shoulder, swatting at Richie's hand when he stole Eddie's fries, picking clumps of grass and throwing it onto each other. Whenever Eddie made Richie laugh, Richie instinctively turned towards Eddie and reached for his arm or knee, something to hold onto, bringing them closer together. He probably didn't even realize he'd been doing it. Richie had always been tactile, but Eddie didn't touch other people. Germs. But this weekend, with Richie...it felt nice. Not new at all. The only new thing was how open they were with each other. Maybe it was due to being sent through the emotional wringer only an hour or so before, but it felt OK to let each other know how much they enjoyed being around each other, to acknowledge that they'd always been closer to each other than to the others. 

It’s all fitting together but way faster than he is comfortable with. He likes taking it slow. He eats slowly, breathes slowly, tries to process things slowly. That’s not possible this weekend. He’s only got a few more hours with Richie. And it’s pretty fucking clear now.

But what’s he going to do about it?

Divorce Myra, for a start. Fucking hell, he needs to divorce Myra. That would be a mess, pre-nup notwithstanding. But just the thought of it relaxes him. No more Myra.

What else? Kiss Richie? Definitely. Fuck Richie? He’s never done that with a guy before, but there’s a first time for everything. It’s a thrilling idea. Richie would be up for it, he’s almost positive. The way he was looking at Eddie…Eddie had never experienced that. Not once had someone ogled him so openly. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have enjoyed it. And he did. He wanted Richie to look at him like that again. He wanted to look at Richie like that, take it all in. Richie’s being modest. He looks handsome as fuck at 40, no longer awkwardly gangly and unable to control his limbs. Tall. Solid. Powerful.

He could destroy Eddie. Eddie wants him to.

His fingers are getting pruny. And he does want Richie to have hot water. He gets out and towels off, then wraps it around his waist.

“All yours,” he says, opening the door. Richie looks up from the TV, his mouth hanging open slightly. He’s staring again. Eddie stares right back.

“Ben told me to tell you that we’re having a pajama pizza party, and like, why not, at this point. So get those dinosaur jammies on.”

“Man, your comforter is going to be covered in germs, I can’t believe you sat on the bed in your outside clothes.”

“They’re dry,” Richie says. “And it was full of germs before I got there. Hotel beds have jizz all over them.”

“Well, this one doesn’t,” Eddie says.

“Not yet.”

Eddie definitely blushes. “Gross. Hit the showers, Tozier, or all the pizza’s gonna be gone by the time you get out.”

“Oh in that case…” Richie gets up and runs to the bathroom and slams the door behind him. The shower turns on, and Eddie hears Richie sigh and say very faintly, “Fuck.” He’s not sure what Richie’s swearing about, but he gets the feeling. What a _day._

Richie has brought both of Eddie’s suitcases into his room. He doesn’t know what to make of that, but it gives him a little flutter in his chest.

Eddie digs through one of them to pull out some pajamas, gets dressed, and calls Myra. She doesn’t take it well. He hangs up and turns off his phone.

“Dude, really?” Richie says.

“What?” Eddie says, startling. He hadn’t heard Richie open the bathroom door.

“You just--?”

“Asked for a divorce, yeah.”

“Um.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Eddie says.

“Congrats?” Richie ventures.

“Thanks, it was horrible.”

Richie smiles to himself, and Eddie knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “Did you say that to her on the honeymoon?” _Dammit, Richie_. He hates that Richie got him to laugh with that. 

“Fuck off.”

“Turn your back, I’m gonna get dressed.”

“Do it in the bathroom, man.”

“It’s all steamy in there and it’ll be hot and I’ll sweat and my clothes’ll get all sweaty, so no, turn your back. Locker room rules.”

“Fine.”

Eddie turns his back. He doesn’t peek. He desperately wants to peek. He rubs his breastbone and then decides to just say it.

“So, I’ve been thinking. About how it’s been since we kinda lost touch. You were really important to me. And I just wanted to let you know that it sucks that I didn’t talk to you for so long, because I would’ve wanted to be—things would’ve been different, I guess.”

Richie’s done dressing. “OK, I’m decent,” Richie says. Sweatpants and an old t-shirt from his first stand-up tour. Eddie turns towards him but doesn’t actually lift his head to meet Richie’s eyes. He can only look at his collarbone. Richie starts to say something, but he’s interrupted.

“Pizza’s here,” Bev’s voice says, accompanied by two knocks on the door.

“Thanks, we’ll be right down,” Eddie calls.

“Oh, there you are, Eddie,” Bev says. “You weren’t in your room. Come on down when you’re ready. Bring Richie.”

“In a minute,” he says. He’s a little embarrassed. Richie sizes him up, and decides to let the conversation pause there. Eddie’s relieved.

“Let’s go eat.” Richie doesn’t put on shoes, just socks, to go downstairs.

“You’re gonna get ringworm,” Eddie says.

“Don’t care,” Richie says.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

They’ve taken over the continental breakfast area, pushing together all the tables and chairs. They’re basically the only guests and the only person in the lobby is a bored receptionist watching Netflix on his iPad, so who’s going to stop them? Someone, probably Mike, the consummate host, has produced a few bottles of liquor. Bev’s in a tank top and boxers and her hair is in tiny braided pigtails. Mike’s in a plain t-shirt and comfy pants that look like something Ben would wear, and Bill’s got pajama pants with skeletons all over them. Stanley’s sporting a matching set of pajamas, like he’s in an old movie. They spend a few minutes making fun of him for that.

“Oh, thank god, alcohol,” Richie says. Stanley appoints himself bartender because no one else will make his drink right, or their own drinks as good as he’ll make them.

Mike was right. The pizza isn’t good. Eddie eats four slices. Richie eats even more, and drinks more than the others, too. They’re all just a tiny bit slap-happy after the day they’ve had, and they can’t stop laughing. Bev and Ben are sprawled on a loveseat, talking in low voices. Stanley is sitting on the floor, texting his wife. Mike, Bill, and Eddie are crowded onto a couch, resting their heads on each other’s shoulders, their legs overlapping on the coffeetable. Richie crawls across their laps, ending with his head on Eddie’s thighs.

“Naptime,” he says.

“Go right ahead, I can’t move,” Eddie says.

“Your elbow is digging into my thigh and it hurts like a motherfucker,” Bill says as Richie turns on his side.

“Speaking of motherfuckers, Eddie’s wife looks—“ Richie says.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Eddie says.

“Sorry,” Richie says. He pouts. Eddie runs his fingers through Richie’s curls.

“Dude, did you use my shampoo?”

“Yes.” He yawns obnoxiously loudly.

Eddie sighs. “That shit’s expensive, bro.”

“Smells good. Fancy.” Richie’s eyes are closed, like a cat being petted.

Mike and Bill are looking at each other like they know a secret, and Eddie glares at them. “Shut up,” he mouths at them.

“What?” they whisper back innocently.

Eddie draws a finger across his neck. They take simultaneous sips of their whiskey. Bill winks. Eddie flushes.

“How long do divorces take?” Richie asks, yawning again.

“Depends on if you’ve got a pre-nup,” Stan answers.

“Do you?” Richie asks.

“Yes,” both Eddie and Bev say at the same time.

“You too?” Eddie asks her.

“Fuck yeah, he’s an asshole,” Bev says.

“Divorce club, high five,” Eddie says. They hold up their hands and pretend to high five across the room.

“As of when?” Mike asks very casually.

“A few days,” Bev says.

“Like an hour ago,” Eddie says. He checks his watch. “Three hours ago.”

“Really?” Bill says.

“I realized I don’t want to be married to her anymore,” Eddie says, shrugging. He’s caught Richie’s yawn, and he’s studiously ignoring the silent eyebrow conversation Bill and Mike are conducting without him.

“Yeah she seemed—“

“Don’t say it, Richie,” Eddie warns.

Uncharacteristically, Richie shuts up.

“What time is it?” Ben asks, also yawning.

“Party time,” Bill says at the same time that Bev answers, “Midnight.”

“Showtime, showtime,” Eddie says, then laughs to himself. “New York City joke.”

“They do that in _Hamilton_ ,” Stanley says.

“What’s that?” Eddie asks.

“Oh my god,” Stanley says.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” Ben says.

“I’m joking. Of course I know what _Hamilton_ is. I’ve seen buses.”

“Let’s go see _Hamilton_ ,” Richie says.

“No,” everyone else says together.

“I’m going to go to sleep,” Bill says. “I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” Bev says.

“You look radiant, Marsh.”

“She is radiant,” Ben says, scooping her up into a bridal carry. She giggles. It’s adorable, how happy they are.

Richie makes fake vomiting sounds into Eddie’s stomach. Bill stands up and rolls Richie onto the floor. Richie groans loudly.

“Get up or be dragged,” Eddie says, poking Richie in the side with his toes.

“You’re mean,” Richie says.

“I know, I’m your worst nightmare,” Eddie says.

Richie laughs uncontrollably. He rolls onto his back and lets Eddie pull him up. Eddie leads him upstairs by the hand. It’s not even a question if Eddie will come back to his room with him. Richie unlocks the door with his key card, and in they go.

“Let me draw the curtains,” Eddie says. “If the sun wakes me up I will personally murder it.”

Richie is leaning up against the wall sleepily. For some reason he seems determined to stay upright, like it’s important. He also seems to be working up his courage to say something but trying to be subtle about it. As if Eddie hadn’t been watching and analyzing Richie constantly as long as they’d known each other, as if Eddie couldn’t tell when Richie was trying to hide something.

“So I’m gay,” Richie says.

“I know, buddy,” Eddie says. “We talked about it earlier.”

“I used to be so in love with you as a kid,” Richie says.

He suspected it was coming, but still, Eddie smiles. “Really?”

“I think I still am,” Richie says.

Again, it’s not a shock. What is a surprise is how violently Eddie’s heart expands to fill his entire body when he hears it. What a pleasant reason for not being able to breathe. A smile breaks out across Eddie’s face so wide that he’s got to take a moment to ride it out it so his mouth will relax enough to allow him to respond. “You’re hammered, Richie. This needs to be a sober conversation. You’re gonna sleep this off and we’re going to talk in the morning, OK? Get into bed.”

“Stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Eddie pulls the curtains closed as Richie takes the duvet off the bed and drops it onto the floor. “There, no germs,” he says. They climb into bed.

“Dibs on little spoon,” Eddie says.

“Naturally, you’re so little,” Richie says.

Richie drapes his arm around Eddie’s waist protectively, and they’re out in less than five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie and I are both insufferable New Yorkers and I like that about us. Here is where I brag that I saw Hamilton in previews.


	7. Richie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished business.

That’s not Richie’s alarm going off. It’s the devil’s own alarm. He opens his eyes blearily and smacks his hand around, trying to find it anyway so he can throw it out the window. That siren noise fucking sucks.

“Make it stop,” he croaks.

Eddie is poking him in the ribs and trying to dig a hand under Richie’s belly. “Get off my phone, dude.”

Richie rolls over. The noise blessedly ends.

“I feel wretched,” Richie says.

“Well you look fabulous.” Eddie ruffles his fingers through Richie’s hair. That feels better. He’s actually not nearly as hungover as he was yesterday morning. _Progress!_

“How much did I drink last night?”

“Not enough to throw up. Enough to talk too much.”

“What kind of dumb shit did I say?” he says, reaching for his glasses.

“Nothing dumber than normal.”

He frowns. “I think I remember saying…” He trails off, suddenly nervous. _God, did I actually do it? What a fucking idiot. I’m such a fucking idiot._

“Do you remember what you said?” Eddie looks at him with a closed-off expression. _How does he do tha_ t? Richie has never had an enigmatic facial expression in his life.

“Do _you_ remember what I said?”

“Do you _want_ me to remember what you said?”

“If I said what I think I said, then no, because I want to say it better.”

“Then, no, I have no fucking clue what you said last night. I never listen to you, to be honest.”

“Good,” Richie says.

Eddie smiles softly. “Breakfast?”

“If it requires putting my feet on the floor and standing and walking somewhere, no, I don’t want it.”

“You’re eventually going to have to get out of bed.”

“You’re underestimating me, I can stay in bed for weeks.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively and is gratified when Eddie laughs.

“Dude it’s our last day, we’re not just sitting around in bed all day.”

“Well we don’t have to be sitting…” Eddie stretches and rolls his eyes. His elbows and hips crack loudly. “Wait, when’s your flight?”

“Tomorrow at 6am.”

“You _would_ schedule a flight that early. You’re gonna have to leave for the airport at like 4.” Eddie opens his mouth, but Richie corrects himself. “Sorry, 2, I know how you are.”

“When’s yours?”

“At 8pm like a normal person’s.”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Hm.” One of them should reschedule.

“LaGuardia or JFK?” he asks.

“LaGuardia.”

“My condolences.”

“Could be worse. I could be going to LA.”

“Yeah, sunshine and good weather, fuck that,” Richie agrees.

“Smog. Traffic.”

“New York has traffic too.”

“Yeah, it does. Too many people, they should get the fuck out of my city.”

“LA is way less crowded.”

“LA also blows.”

Hm. Richie’s spent the past 27 hours thinking in the back of his mind about how he might make room in his apartment for another person, but he supposes he could be flexible. LA _does_ kind of blow. New York also has comedy clubs, after all. Still.

“But I’m there,” he protests.

“You’re not there right now, you’re here, no way am I going if you’re not there.”

“Then come with meeeeee,” he whines, pretending he’s not really offering Eddie his heart and everything else he has.

“I’m not going anywhere without breakfast,” Eddie says. _Nice deflection._ “Brace yourself.” He opens the curtains. Sunshine invades the room with the force of a train crash, and Richie throws his face back into the pillow, groaning dramatically.

“I need to brush my teeth, I can’t believe I didn’t do it last night. You definitely need to brush your teeth, Trashmouth.”

It occurs to Richie that if his breath smells good, Eddie might want to kiss him. “Ugh, fine.”

“Did we ever decide on brunch or not?” Eddie asks.

“Mike made a reservation already.”

“I love that man.”

“More than me?”

“Of course not,” Eddie says, brushing his teeth. Richie had been in a tiny unpaid production of _The Taming of the Shrew_ when he was just starting out and thought maybe he’d be a good actor (he wasn’t). “I burn, I pine, I perish,” had been one of his lines. He couldn’t get it out of his dumbass romantic goblin head then and he couldn’t get it out of his dumbass romantic goblin head now. Especially not now that he’d been completely open with Eddie, and even held him in his arms at night, like a fucking normal person who had healthy relationships. He slept better last night than he had in _months._

He turns on the TV and they putter around getting ready. According to the group text they need to meet in the lobby at 11:00 at the absolute latest for their 11:30 reservation. Eddie hounds Richie to keep moving, and they’re there at 10:50, before everyone but Mike, who’s sitting and reading a physical copy of the newspaper like he’s in an ancient movie.

Ben and Bev arrive next.

“How was the sex?” Richie asks.

“Mind your own business, Tozier,” Ben says, at the same time that Bev says curtly, “Athletic.”

But they both give him a thumbs-up when the other isn’t looking. _God, they’re cute_.

Stan sidles on up to them and sits across from Mike, reading the opposite side of the newspaper. Finally, Bill arrives: 10:59.

Bill, Stan, Bev, and Ben get into the first car and Eddie and Richie jump in with Mike. Bill’s ironically not great at playing follow-the-leader when doing a car caravan, because he doesn’t remember to stop when the light turns yellow but keeps going, so Mike has to stop at the red.

“Hey, can we make a detour?” Richie asks. Mike looks at the car’s clock. “Just a quick one, like, two minutes,” Richie reassures him.

“Yeah, man, it’s your vacation,” Mike says, shrugging. “Where to?”

“Uh, the Kissing Bridge,” he says.

“You got it,” Mike says, and Richie feels a surge of gratitude that he picked up the phone a week ago.

“Thanks, man.”

Eddie is looking at him curiously, but he’s in the back seat and Richie’s in the front (he gets shotgun privileges because his legs are longer), so Richie can just ignore it while he tries to stop sweating like an idiot and get his words in order. Mike pulls up, and Richie gets out, gesturing to Eddie to do the same.

“Come here, just a sec.”

“Hey, wait,” Mike says. He reaches over and opens up the glovebox to pull out a small votive candle and a box of matches. “Set this out for me, will you? People keep stealing them,” he explains, pointing at the memorial.

“Yeah man,” Richie says. _Would Bill or Stanley be offended if I asked Mike to be my best man?_ he thinks.

Richie walks past the memorial, and looks back to gesture to Eddie to keep going. Eddie’s confused face is adorable. There it is, just where he remembered.

R + E

Richie crouches down and decides, actually, he can’t say anything, even if he wanted to, because he knows if he tries to talk something dumb is going to come out of his big fat mouth and he doesn’t want to ruin it. All he can do is point and watch Eddie’s face as comprehension dawns like clouds parting.

“You did that?” Eddie asks. Richie nods. “When?”

“That summer.” He has to clear his throat. “You were grounded and I missed you. I would’ve drawn a little heart but like, I didn’t want to be a fucking dweeb about it.”

“After--?”

“Yeah. It was an apology, too, I guess.”

“You didn’t do it, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. But I still wanted to put it out there. For posterity. Or karma, or good juju, or whatever. Since I couldn’t tell you.”

“I don’t know what I would have done if you’d told me then,” Eddie admits. “But now,” he says, and grabs Richie by the back of his neck and pulls him closer for a kiss. Richie’s not sure what he’s feeling but boy there’s a lot of it.

“Mmmm, nope,” he says after about 30 seconds, and pulls away.

“What?” Eddie asks, eyebrows furrowed like Richie just started spitting blood.

“Eddie, I told you, my knees are not good enough for this. Get up here,” he says, standing, pulling Eddie up with him. Then it’s right back to kissing, but the angle is better and since there’s not as much pressure on his knees distracting him he can really focus on putting some precision into it. Eddie’s a lot less tentative too, to the point where Eddie braces himself against the bridge railing so Richie can push as close to him as he wants without worrying about sending them both over the side. And he wants to be so close. So, so close.

The candle makes a loud clunking noise when it falls from Richie’s coat pocket, and it startles them apart.

“Oh, shit, brunch,” Richie says, discombobulated.

“Let’s go, the others are waiting,” Eddie says, bending down to pick up the candle. They return to the memorial. Richie hands him the matches, and he sets down the candle and lights it, placing it carefully in the center.

“I’m sorry, Adrian,” he says. He positions the candle so it’s away from the teddy bear still wearing the beaver hat, so none of them catch fire, something Richie probably wouldn’t have thought to do. He takes out his car keys and scratches out the hateful slur in the soft, weathered wood above the memorial. Then he takes Richie’s hand, and they get back in the car, climbing into the back seat.

Mike puts away the newspaper that he has ostentatiously pulled out again, crinkling it in faux-irritation. The effect is ruined because he’s trying not to smile and can’t stay in character, but Richie appreciates the attempt.

“You cool?” Mike asks. “Are we good to go?”

“Onward, Jeeves,” Richie says.

“Motherfucker, I’m not your chauffeur. This isn’t _Driving Miss Daisy_.”

“Sorry.”

“Plus Jeeves was a valet, not a butler, not a driver. Please read a book, Richie. Honestly.”

Richie turns to Eddie. “Well I don’t know about you, but Mike just killed my boner.”

Eddie shrugs. “Eh, mine’s still going pretty strong.”

And he and Richie start laughing and can’t stop. They fly into hysterics when Mike says “NO. NO. Get back up in front, Richie. You will not fool around like teenagers in the back of my car that I paid for. No one has boners in this car but me!” He keeps up the outraged “I will turn this car around so help me God” parent routine until they’re all crying laughing.

“You show him your graffiti?” Mike asks, once they’ve settled down.

“What the fuck, you knew that was me?”

“Richie, I’ve been crossing that bridge for 30 years, I know every inch of it. I can put two and two together.”

“Yeah, I showed him.”

“Did you see Ben’s?”

“Dude _what?_ ” Eddie says.

“There’s a tiny little heart that says BH+BM inside it, about ten feet away from that R+E.” Mike says.

“Biiiiiitch,” Richie says. “That was supposed to be my thing! Ben stole my thing! When did he put it there?”

“When did you carve yours?”

“1989. After Eddie was grounded.”

“Oh, yeah, no, his was later, after Bev moved away.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw him do it. He thought he was all slick, sneaking through the trees and whatever. Like it wasn’t obvious. That boy was not capable of stealth.”

“That is fucking adorable,” Eddie says. “Oh my god.”

“OK but just so we’re all clear here, mine was more adorable, right?”

“Obviously,” Eddie says, giving him a quick peck on the lips. _Oh, that’s never going to get old._

“Mike?”

Mike says nothing, trying not to smile, playing at disapproval again.

“Miiiiiiike?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cute,” he admits. “The heart was overdoing it. Gilding the lily, right?”

“Exactly!” Richie says. “You get me! I feel seen.”

The others are waiting, leaning up against the car when they pull up to the brunch place.

“Man, you’re supposed to wait for the other car to go through the intersection with you,” Mike says to Bill, as if that explained their whole delay.

“My bad,” Bill says. “I think I’m gonna get the steak and eggs.”

“Classic,” Stanley says with approval.

They enter the restaurant and sit down, do the whole restaurant thing, taking care to order extra beverages, and finally, once the server has left them alone, Bill says, “So. Down to business. Where’s he buried, Mike?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie gets two chapters because he's my favorite. Also, Mike is right, and you should all read the Jeeves and Wooster stories by P.G. Wodehouse. Particularly relevant is The Code of the Woosters. The code is "Never let a pal down." Isn't that nice?


	8. Bill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's showtime.

Mike takes a deep breath, and Bill feels an awful sense of foreboding. That it even registers on his scale of shittiness is amazing considering how much Derry throws it out of whack, and yet.

“I looked into it this week. His lawyer claimed his body on Monday, and they interred it in the same plot his mother’s buried in,” Mike says. “He’d paid for it while on trial, apparently.” Mike is being careful to make steady eye contact with Bill, so Bill knows he’s taking it seriously. That’s not a good sign.

“Oh no,” Bill says.

“His mom is buried in Section 43 of the cemetery next to the Presbyterian church up on Jackson.”

“God fucking dammit,” Bill says. The others don’t get it yet.

“Georgie is buried in Section—“

“46,” Bill says. He slams his hand down on the table, making the silverware rattle.

“You cannot be fucking serious,” Bev says.

“These fucking people,” Eddie says.

“This fucking place,” Richie says.

“I hate it here,” Stanley says, with more bitterness than Bill has ever heard him use.

“What the fuck,” Ben agrees.

Bill just has his face in his hands, his fingers massaging his temples, trying to calm himself down. “Fucking. Great. They’re neighbors! It’s fine.” It’s not working. He’s going to shrivel up. He’s going to explode into angry, bloody confetti. He’s going to strangle the next person he sees so he can’t look up because an innocent bystander at the next table doesn’t deserve a bruised esophagus on this fine Sunday.

“Why don’t we just burn the whole place down?” Richie says. “Let’s torch this entire fucking town.”

“At this point, I’m ready to,” Mike says, his usual equanimity failing.

“I mean, at least it’ll be easy to find?” Ben says, trying to find a bright spot. _Oh, Ben._ Bev places a hand on his to shush him.

“Why did they even approve that sale? Georgie’d been buried at that point, they knew he’d be right by him,” Eddie says.

“I don’t know,” Mike answers. “The city didn’t have a problem with it, I suppose. I don’t know if they even realized.”

“The fucking _disrespect_ ,” Richie says. Bill’s not sure he’s ever seen Richie this angry. He’s never been this angry before either. Stan’s face is completely white.

They’re the only two who knew Georgie well. Eddie had hung out with them a few times at Bill’s house before Georgie died, so he’d met Georgie enough to like him and be horrified when he died, but Richie and Stan had been there from the beginning. Georgie had followed them around with nearly the same admiration he’d had for Bill. They’d done sleepovers where Georgie had to be carried from the room by their parents so he would go to sleep because otherwise he wouldn’t leave the older boys alone. Stan would draw birds and Georgie would color them in. Richie had developed a Voice specifically to entertain Georgie, and Georgie would scream with laughter at it. Richie never used that Voice again. He meant more to them, so this hurts more too.

“This does bring up a different option,” Mike says.

“What?”

“Where are your parents buried?”

“Portland.”

“Do you want to disinter Georgie and have his remains placed with them?”

“I—“ He’d never even thought about it before. Georgie was here, and he’d stay here, because this was the only place he’d ever known. “You can do that?”

“Yes. I think so. Or you can have him cremated and interred with you when you die. I know a woman who is going to do that with her stillborn. It gave her peace.”

“Yes. Done. We’ll take Georgie to his parents,” Bill says. “They died when he did.”

“Good. We’ll start with the paperwork tomorrow. Can you delay your flight a couple days to take care of it?”

“Of course.”

“It will likely be expensive.”

“Anything for Georgie.” He clears his throat. He’s already cried so much in front of these people, he doesn’t want to do it again, just for his own ego’s sake. He takes a drink of the shitty, too-citrusy mimosa ( _Derry can’t even do brunch right, what the fuck?_ ) to clear his head.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Thank you, Mike,” Bill says. He reaches across the table and shakes Mike’s hand.

The server comes to deliver their food, and they let the conversation subside.

“OK, I have a question,” Stan says, after several minutes.

“Yeah?”

“What time are we going to go do this? Because if Bill’s going to be doing business with the churchyard people I don’t want us to get caught and ruin that for him.”

“Near dark, I think,” Mike says.

“This actually makes it easier, like Ben said,” Bill says. “We buy a blanket and visit Georgie and then we take a sledgehammer to Pennywise and bounce. Less time at the scene of the crime.”

“I hope you’re kidding about the sledgehammer,” Stan says.

“We’ll see,” Bill says.

“The sledgehammer is—“ Richie begins.

“Your penis, we know, Richie,” Mike says patiently, and it makes Bill smile. Mike just used the same voice on Richie that he uses for children at the library who interrupt during storytime.

“How’s this gonna work, like, logistically?” Ben asks, leaning forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Like, one by one as the others stand guard? That’ll take a long time.”

“Why don’t we go and like, stand in a circle and pretend we’re praying?” Eddie says, and he can’t even get through the question without laughing.

“Are we just gonna ignore the circle-jerk imagery with that one?” Richie asks. “It’s right there.”

“Here’s a problem with that approach, Eddie: I can’t pee standing up,” Bev says. “I mean, I wore a skirt for easier access—“

“Smart,” Stan says, pointing at her with approval. _Classic Bev. Always thinking ahead._

“—but I’ll need to do more maneuvering than you guys will.”

“So Bev goes first, then, for speed’s sake,” Ben says.

“But I feel like Bill should have the honor of—“ she searches for the right word—“christening him,” Bev says, stifling a laugh.

Unfortunately, that’s when the server reappears to ask how everyone is doing, catching just enough of the conversation to look confused, and the Losers burst into laughter so loud that she looks frightened.

“Everything tastes wonderful, excuse us,” Mike says. “High school reunion.” She walks away. “OK but like, does anyone feel like we’re in the opening scene of _Reservoir Dogs_ right now?” he continues. “We shouldn’t be talking about this here.”

“Oh no,” Eddie whispers to Richie. “I thought of a joke but it’s mean.”

“What?” Richie asks.

“OK but you can’t get mad at me: You’d be Mr. Pink,” Eddie says, his face turning red from suppressed laughter.

Richie looks slightly confused, and asks, “Wait, why am I Mr. Pink?” and then mentally finishes the line. He frowns. “I fucking hate you.”

“I said!” Eddie laughs even harder. It takes a second for Bill to see what’s going on, but Mike smiles immediately, and Bill gets to the punchline a second later. He barks a laugh.

“I hate that you thought of that first, man. That’s pretty good,” Richie concedes.

“I’m lost,” Ben says.

“It’s funny because I’m gay,” Richie explains.

“Oh cool,” Ben says. “What does that have to do with _Reservoir Dogs_? I’ve never seen it.”

“Are you serious?” Bill says. “That’s a great fucking movie, how have you never seen it?”

“Man, we watched that together in the theater, weren’t you there?” Mike asks.

“No? When did it come out?” Ben asks.

“Uh, speaking of coming out,” Richie says. “We kinda just blew right past that.” Eddie reaches across and pats his arm consolingly.

“No, it didn’t come out until ’92,” Stan says. “I remember because Patty wanted to see it on our like second date and I was like, ‘Ugh, no, I don’t like violent movies because in my hometown there was this guy…’”

“No, dude,” Eddie says, “it was junior year, homecoming, because Mike, Richie, and I skipped the dance to go see it because dances—“

“Are lame,” Mike supplies.

“And Bev had already moved away so there wouldn’t have been any girls who’d go with us anyway,” Eddie says.

“I didn’t see it until it came out on VHS, which would’ve been ’93,” Bev says. “Are you thinking of then? Like a sleepover or something?”

“Guys. I know you’re cool with it and already knew but could someone tell me they’re proud of me? That was a big thing for me,” Richie says.

“Sorry, Richie,” Ben says. “I still don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about, but I’m proud of you, and I love you, and I think you and Eddie make a great couple.”

“Thank you, Ben,” Richie says. “See? Ben’s a good friend.”

“I love you too, Richie,” Bill says, and everyone chimes in with their agreement. Eddie raises their joined hands from under the table ( _oh my god, they’ve been holding hands this whole time, that’s adorable,_ Bill thinks) and gives him a kiss on the knuckles.

“That’s all I wanted. Now, Stan I get, he’s sensitive and shit, but Ben, you’re a straight white guy, how have you never seen _Reservoir Dogs_? What other classic guy movies haven’t you seen?”

“What other classic guy movies are there?” he asks, and that starts a whole new conversation, and for the rest of the meal they don’t even remember that Pennywise exists.

They settle the tab and are chatting in the parking lot, when Stanley says, “Hey Bill, look over here.” He’s pointing to the window of a small antique shop.

“I’ll be damned,” Mike says.

“Is that--?”

“That’s Silver,” he says. “That’s my bike!”

“Fuck off, really?” Richie says, crowding around.

“Oh my god,” Bev says. “We have to buy it.”

“Did you know that was here?” Bill asks. “Is that why you chose this place?”

“No, I genuinely didn’t,” Mike says, and Bill believes him.

The man behind the counter asks an exorbitant amount for it ( _Rude. It’s not even that old! I kept it in such good shape!),_ but Bill has to buy that damn bike. That bike took him everywhere that summer. He’d ridden with Georgie on the back, holding onto his waist, or else sitting on the handlebars, hundreds of times, and he’d ridden it with the Losers on their way to the clubhouse even more. It was the only time he’d felt free or powerful, and shouting “Hi-ho Silver!” when he rode was the only time he didn’t stutter. And later, Silver had taken him to Georgie’s grave. He had to get this bike back.

“I know where we should go next,” Ben says. “The clubhouse.”

They load up the bike, and that’s where they go. It’s still there, surprisingly, and undisturbed. Ben had built it beautifully and hidden it very well. It smells like damp soil and it’s dark, but it’s structurally sound. Ben deserved all those architecture awards he’d earned.

“Who was the last person to use this?” Bill asks, kicking at an old comic book on the ground. “Mike?”

“Probably not,” he says. “I didn’t come here without you guys. It felt wrong to bring other people into it.”

“Me,” Ben says. “I would come out here and read and sleep in the hammock, sometimes. Remember what it was like when we were all together.”

“Aw,” Bev says.

“We should destroy it,” Mike says.

“Nooooooo,” Ben says. “This is my baby.”

“I’m just saying, this would be an excellent place to hide bodies, if someone else like Pennywise knew it was here,” Mike says.

Bill’s heart sinks. _Aw, fuck, he’s right._

“Oh shit,” Bev says. “The police should probably know it’s here, in case anyone ever goes missing again.”

“No, it’s a sanctuary,” Ben says. “We should tell some kids about it. Transfer ownership to them.”

“That’s just asking for it to become a place where teenagers come to fuck and junkies come to shoot up,” Richie says.

“I’m with Mike,” Eddie says. “I don’t want anyone else to have it. This was our place.”

“How are we even going to tear it down? Ben built it too well, we’ll need dynamite or something,” Stan says.

“Thanks, Stan,” Ben says.

“Soundproof it and use it as a podcast studio,” Richie says.

“No,” everyone says.

“I would feel better if it were gone,” Bill says. “We don’t need this place anymore, and someone could use it to hurt kids like Georgie.”

“The city owns the land, doesn’t it?” Ben asks. “Why don’t you turn it over to them and let them deal with it?”

“Just tell them we found it here?”

“Why not? Do they need to know who made it?” Bev asks.

“Not if they’re not going to sue anyone,” Ben says. “I mean, we violated a shit-ton of civic building codes to make this, but, like, legally, we should be fine, since it’s so long after the fact and we were minors. I think.”

“How about Mike just tells the cops about it if another kid goes missing? Just let it sit until something happens?” Stan asks.

“Fuck that, I’m not staying around for that, I’m leaving as soon as I find someone to replace me at the library,” Mike says. “I’m sick of this place.”

“Wait, really?” Bill asks.

“Absolutely. I’ve already placed job ads.”

“Thank god, man, get gone and stay gone, you’re too good for this place,” Bill says.

“Where are you going to go?”

“Florida, first. Then maybe New Orleans, I’ve never been down there. Lots of history there.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bev says, smiling. She knocks her shoulder into his.

“Good for you, Mike,” Stan says. A strange feeling of relief is settling over Bill. With Georgie gone up to rest with his parents in Portland, and Mike gone traveling, and even his stupid bike gone with him back to LA, nothing he cares about will be left behind in Derry. He can just erase it from his mind, and keep only the Losers where it had been.

“We should burn it,” Bill says.

“That’s a hell of a lot of property crimes to be committing in one day,” Mike says. “Trespassing, desecration of graves, arson.”

“Be gay, do crimes,” Richie says. “I’m in.”

“Guys, no,” Eddie says. “Symbolic resonance aside, we will be put in jail or fined thousands of dollars if we burn this place down, and I don’t want to owe this fucking city anything more or stay here a second longer than necessary. Let’s just leave it the way we found it.”

“It lasted almost 30 years,” Bev says. “If we hide it as well when we leave, it’ll be like it’s not here.”

“And then they can find out about it when Bill writes about it in his memoirs,” Mike says. “Fine by me.”

“I’m not writing a memoir.”

“You’ve been writing one in your head your entire life,” Mike says. “You just put it in your books first.”

 _Dammit, he’s right._ Bill sighs deeply. “Mike, this weekend has been difficult enough without you having accurate insights into my personality, OK? Jesus.”

“If the choices are between burning it and leaving it, I say we leave it,” Stan says.

“So do I,” Eddie says.

Everyone else agrees, Ben most fervently.

“That’s settled, then. Now come on, we’ve got a grave to pee on,” Bill says.

The small stonemason’s shop they’d bought Georgie’s grave marker and first blanket of flowers from is long gone. Mike has to take them to a different flower shop, and the selection isn’t great. All of the headstone arrangements for children have the same kind of shit he’d hated when Georgie died, all about God needing new angels and whatever. Georgie would be 35 now. He deserves a grown-up’s wreath.

Bev finds the winner. It’s simple, but tasteful and elegant, and the ribbon is blue, Georgie’s favorite color. They put it in the back of Bill’s rental car, next to Silver, and drive over to the cemetery. There’s an automatic parking gate, one that, in a functional town, would be situated outside a manned security booth. As it is, the arm lifts up in front of them and allows them access to the grounds without even having to take a ticket because Derry sucks. Maybe they’re not even risking anything by being here. 

Derry had a higher number of deaths than the normal small New England town. The cemetery is vast and sprawling, and at first Bill’s afraid he won’t recognize the place or how to get there. That’s an irrational fear, he realizes, because he knows every inch of the path that will return him to his baby brother.

The grim stoicism he’d been hoping to endure this with collapses at the first sight of the headstone. It’s covered in natural detritus, the result of lying under a tree and the ravages of 27 years of weather. There’s also a cigarette butt or two. _At least there aren’t any condoms._

Stan and Eddie immediately lean down to brush the headstone clean, so they can read the inscription. Bill is so grateful these people are back in his life. Bev places the blanket of flowers on the grave, and Ben stakes it into place.

“Hi, Georgie,” he says. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I visited. I hope you weren’t too lonely out here.” Tears are already streaming down his face. Stan puts a warm hand on his neck, reassuring, grounding. He’s sniffling too.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I should have been with you. I wasn’t that sick, I could’ve been out there with you and that stupid boat we worked so hard on. I hope I was a good big brother. I tried to be. I tried so hard. I miss you. I’m sorry you weren’t at my wedding, or graduation, or my birthday parties, and that I missed all of yours, that you never got to have them. You never got to have a Losers Club of your own. It’s not fair. Um. It’s just not fair.” It’s difficult to speak past the boulder of emotion lodged in his throat. “I tried to do the things you couldn’t, and I thought of you while I did them. Every time.” He can’t continue.

“I thought of you every time it rained,” Stan picks up.

“We never met, but you sound like a great kid. And Bill loved you so much,” Bev says. “To accomplish that, to be loved that much, in so little time, that’s really special. You were special.”

“Hiya Georgie, you’re lookin’ swell, kid, just peaches and cream,” Richie says in the Voice, and Bill fucking loses it. He buries his face in Stan’s shoulder and sobs so loudly he can’t hear the rest of what Richie says. He keeps his remarks short, because he can’t keep it together either.

“Uh, it’s not much, but I brought you some Legos,” Ben says unsteadily, placing a box down next to the blanket. “I thought we might’ve liked to build something together, if things had been different.”

Mike places a battered copy of _Oh, the Places You’ll Go!_ next to the box. “This was always one of my favorites,” he says.

Eddie brings up the rear. “We love you, Georgie.” There’s not much else that needs to be said.

“I’m gonna get you out of here. You’re gonna be with Mom and Dad soon, away from here. That’s the better place you deserve. I’ll take you there this time,” Bill promises. He places his hand on Georgie’s name. “We’re gonna be fine.”

Bill closes his eyes to wipe them and opens them to find himself enveloped in a crushing hug. It’s the opposite of feeling smothered. Someone, probably Bev, places a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“We’re gonna be fine,” Ben repeats, and Bill believes him. When he’s ready, Bill steps back from the group. Eddie hands him a tissue. He passes them out to everyone. They go through a pack and a half of them.

“Shall we?” Bill asks.

The walk to Pennywise’s grave is scandalously short. A fresh wave of hatred washes over Bill.

The epitaph reads MARY GRAY, 1924-1993, AND HER SON. If she was going for unobtrusive and easily overlooked, it didn’t work. The polished slab of granite has already been defaced. BABYKILLER. PEDOPHILE. FUCKING MONSTER. Some of it has been there for a long time, probably since his mother died and someone realized who was supposed to go there next. But a significant amount of it is fresh.

“That _rules,_ ” Ben says. “Good for you, Derry.”

No one is around. Either the security here sucks or the graveyard keepers have bowed to the inevitable and implicitly given the vandals their blessing.

“So do we just go for it?” Ben asks.

“Hell yeah, let’s do this,” Bill says with determined finality.

They settle into a semi-circle around the grave, at a respectable distance from each other to avoid splashback. They first face outward so Bev can do her thing in private. She stands up and retreats to the edge of the circle.

“OK boys, whip ‘em out,” she says.

“Make it last,” Mike says. The disparate splatters and then tinkling sound the urine makes as it starts to collect in the fresh sod is disgustingly satisfying, like popping a pimple or pulling out a sore, rotten tooth.

Eddie makes sure to blast the headstone since he’s closest to it.

“This is the weirdest bonding experience I’ve ever had,” Ben says once they’re all zipped back up. Bill can’t help but agree. Blood oaths are nothing compared to this.

“Who’s up for some cathartic yelling?” Stan asks.

For the next five minutes they scream every insult they can think of at that miserable piece of shit’s grave. Richie gets really creative with it. “Fucking clown,” is what he starts with, and escalates from there, until his voice is hoarse and the others are laughing. He ends with a simple, venomous, whispered “Sloppy bitch,” dropping it like a cat drops a dead bird into their owner’s lap.

Bill exhales slowly and assesses. “I feel better.”

Eddie passes around a bottle of hand sanitizer. _Classic Eddie._

“Where to next?” Mike asks.

“I kinda want ice cream,” Bill says.

“I could go for a nice swirl cone,” Bev agrees.

“Let’s hit the soft-serve stand and go back to the hotel and watch _Reservoir Dogs_ so Ben can get my awesome joke,” Richie says.

“That was my joke,” Eddie says.

“I’m claiming it. Mine now.”

“Dude, no, this is not a ‘what’s mine is yours,’ situation at this point in time. Other people are allowed to be funny, Rich.”

Eddie and Richie bicker all the way back to the cars. It’s peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't feel bad, Ben, I didn't see Reservoir Dogs until I was 30. The opening scene is a bunch of criminals eating at a restaurant and talking about Madonna and shit before they go rob a place, but this is the scene Eddie quotes. Like I said, it's mean, but if it's funny then it doesn't count, and I thought it was funny. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4W5KhfJHF_4


	9. Mike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

Mike makes the calls a little after 6pm, in his time zone. Ben and Bev answer first, their images popping up on his laptop screen. Still absurdly good-looking, the both of them. Bill is next; Audra waves hi from the background, then goes on to do whatever it is that glamorous people do while they’re at home and not invited to their spouse’s group video call. Eddie and Richie answer and are wearing birthday party hats even though Mike _told_ them to not make a big deal about it. They’ve even put one on their stupidly adorable Pomeranian they adopted the day after they moved in together. Richie takes that dog with him in a baby bjorn on the subway. He’s been photographed with that dog so many times some fan created an Instagram account for it. And then there’s Stan. He’s sorry he’s late, he was painting the nursery and lost track of time. Patty says hi, by the way. She’s doing well, not too morning-sick anymore.

“First things first, I want to see the ring,” Mike says. Ben and Bev designed it together, and it looked massive, judging from the pictures they’d sent the group chat when he’d proposed and she’d said yes.

“That is not first thing,” Bill says.

They launch into an extremely off-key and embarrassing rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” Mike wants to run away. He hates being the center of attention. Stan is the one to make the joke about birthday spankings, though, which is a surprise. Mike was sure it would be Richie.

“How’s the first birthday away from Derry?” Bill asks.

“Better than my first Mardi Gras was,” he says. He’d been queasy for two days after, the worst hangover of his life. Not enough ginger ale in the city to settle that sucker.

They ask how his classes are going, and agree that it’s bullshit that he has to get a Master’s in library science when he has so much experience being a librarian already, but it is what it is. The younger students in his classes think he’s like, some wise old wizard come down from a mountaintop. They do not agree with Mike’s assessment that he is distinguished, like Denzel. Someone had the utter gall to say he looked more like Morgan Freeman. “I’m not gonna lie, it hurt,” he says.

Bill and Audra’s movie is going to premiere soon. He actually wrote a pretty good ending for it. He’d submitted the revisions for it just before leaving for Derry, rushing to finish it after Mike’s call, and he was almost satisfied with it. They’re all invited to the premiere, of course.

Bev’s ring is three carats, with two pear-shaped diamonds pointing downward from the central mounting, contouring the band, tapering down into some beautiful baguette diamonds along the side. Set in white gold. It’s elegant as fuck.

“Ben helped,” she says. He’s doing more work on designing their home, which he wants to build in the next two years or so, maybe out in the suburbs. Wilmette, maybe. Ben is leaning towards Oak Park because Frank Lloyd Wright lived there, and he’s a nerd.

None of them has been back to Maine since Bill arranged for Georgie to be placed with Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough in Portland. None of them ever has any reason to go there ever again.

The Adrian Mellon Memorial Scholarship Fund is almost up and running. Hopefully it will be in time for college acceptance/high school graduation season, so kids don’t have to worry about paying for college. Eddie’s taking care of all the money and legal stuff surrounding it. Richie’s bad at that. He’s great at promoting it, though. People like it when he gets sincere about it in interviews. It weirds him out.

“So, uh, I met someone,” Mike says. Bev actually squeals in excitement. Mike tells them all about her, and how they’ve only been on four dates, but he’s got a good feeling about her. She’s a historian too. They met at a true crime convention and yes, he is embarrassed that he still goes to them. She had the exact right response to him telling her that he was the one who found Patrick Hockstetter’s body: “That’s so fucked up! I’m so sorry! I hope you were OK after it, you had to be like, 12, that’s horrific. God, his eye was missing. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” He hasn’t told her about the graveside visit yet; he’s saving that for a later conversation. He thinks she’ll laugh.

All in all, he’s happy. The others are happy for him. And he’s happy for them.

Happiness. Who’d have thought?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was fun! I've never written something in installments like this, so that was a fun challenge. I love these characters so much, I hope you approve of what I did with them. I hope you're all staying safe and inside during quarantine, and that I made your isolation a little more bearable, because writing this really helped with mine. 
> 
> OK I think that's it. 
> 
> Bye!
> 
> \--Gal


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